Bound by Blood
by 24 and 24
Summary: Twenty-three tributes were sacrificed last year. Twenty-three more are sentenced now; whether they volunteer or their name is called, they sign a binding contract with fate, written in their own blood. Ladies and gentlemen, let the Thirty-Eighth annual Hunger Games begin! [24-24]
1. Prologue: Victory Tour

**Dance's A/N:** "Bound by Blood" is a 24–Author–24–Tribute fanfiction. For those of you unfamiliar with this terminology, it entails twenty–four authors collaborating to create one Hunger Games. Each person writes the First–Person Point of View of a different tribute. It's like an SYOT. Only...yano...legal.

Legal FTW! c:

"Bound by Blood" (or 'B–b–B', as we authors refer to it) is also a sequel to our story "Blood Dreams", which is currently on an indefinite hiatus. I know what you're thinking: why for the love of God/Yahweh/Allah/Zeus/Odin/the Flying Spaghetti Monster are we writing the sequel when the original isn't done yet?

That would be for a number of reasons, actually: (A.) We have people lined up for the sequel who are ready to start, (B.) many authors of "Blood Dreams" are no longer committed to the project, and (C.) we already know how the story plays out and ends.

If you are one of those types who can't stand spoilers, then please **do not** continue reading! Everyone else, please leave an offering of chocolate chip cookies or pudding by the door and come on in.

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**Aqua Rio****, 17 ~ District 4 Victor**

**CelineAnnamarie**

Oh my God! What do I do?!

I see Gleam running to stop Lila from tackling me, knives in her hand.

"Gleam!" I yell, running toward him.

I'm thwarted by Dominic in my way. He pushes me to the ground by my shoulders; it's a hard–yet–gentle push. Why isn't he using that sword of his to stab me?

Oh, I get it! Lila told him she wants to kill me.

I've got to help Gleam!

I try to get up, but Dominic puts his foot down on my shoulder—hard, keeping me restrained. I scream silently. Why does his boot hurt so much?!

This is it...I'm going to have to hear Gleam die. I start crying, glaring at Dominic. I look over to my side, and try to get to my trident, but he slams his foot on my arm.

"AH!" I scream out loud that time.

"Aqua!" I hear Gleam shout my name.

I try to get up, and feel all of Dominic's weight on me. I think I hear my bones start to crack. So painful! When suddenly—the weight is gone.

I look, and Nolan has slammed his entire body into Dominic.

Gleam looks at me, having Lila pinned on the ground, and yells something. What did he say? My mind is clouded; I can't hear anyone anymore. I read his lips and make out, "Run!"

I hesitantly obey. Picking up my trident, I take off into the city.

I take multiple turns in the maze of the ruins, and judge that I'm on the east side. There's a forest here. I stumble through it, stopping at a lake to get a drink of water.

It's nighttime now, and cold. I hope Gleam is okay.

_I should have stayed_, I think to myself, crying once more. I huddle in a fetal position and lay on my side, thinking about the mistake I have made.

...

I awake the next morning, feeling cold and sick to my stomach.

I try lying still to make the pain go away, but sadly it doesn't work. What is this? Why do I feel like I'm going to throw up? Is it the guilt eating at me?

No...this is actual throw–up.

I get on my hands and knees slowly, and crawl quickly away from where I set up my camp. I can't hold back anymore as the bile leaves my stomach. I feel a little better after I finally stand—a bit dizzy, though. I walk back to camp and wash up.

I hope Gleam made it away from those two. I never should have left him.

I passed out as soon as I reached this lake, so I didn't get to see the faces in the sky last night. A tear goes down my cheek as I process his possible death.

I hear footsteps in the distance, coming closer. I move to my trident, heart pumping and adrenaline rushing; fear makes my skin clammy. I look around, and there I see him: Dominic, wide–eyed and enraged. He holds a sword in one hand and an axe in the other. As blood drips from the sword, I let out a blood–curdling wail of grief.

I fall to my knees. He killed him.

Dominic killed Gleam.

When I finally look at Dominic, our eyes make contact. There's something in them; I don't know what it is, but I don't have time to worry about that. He lets out a scream and throws the axe.

My eyes widen, heart skipping a beat as I roll out of the way. The axe skims my right arm and leaves a gaping wound. I wince and grab it, picking up my trident and taking off.

The anger I feel is too much to actually go that far into the forest. I turn around and wait for him. He barrels through the forest, weaving his way through the trees skillfully.

_How am I going to beat him? _I whimper to myself.

I throw my trident when he gets near, and it stabs into his shoulder. He yells in anger and tosses it away like a flimsy toy. My eyes widen. He comes closer, swinging his sword at me almost blindly. I dodge and duck swiftly.

I cannot die!

He backs me into a tree, and I duck just in time for him to get the sword firmly planted into the trunk. Even with how strong Dominic is, it's going to take him a minute to pull it out. He's smarter than to think I won't take that minute to kill him.

He leaves the sword lodged, and charges.

I scream in fear and turn to run.

I feel my body being yanked back by my left arm, and let out a yelp as pain soars through it. I can't tell what he's doing, but it hurts.

He picks me up by the neck, and I gasp—I can't suck in any more air.

This can't be it!

I start trying to hit him and kick him. He grabs my left arm again, and does some kind of movement; I scream as I literally see the bone pop out of place. The adrenaline pumping harder through my veins allows me to kick him in his sensitive area. He drops me, and I scramble to get up, coughing and trying to take in air.

I see my trident where he threw it, and make a break for it.

Almost! Its golden metal is like a beacon of hope as I run.

Then I'm brought down inches in front of it.

He grabs my leg, and I try kicking at his face while reaching for my trident. He's so absorbed in stopping my legs from kicking that he doesn't see me pick it up. I ram it through his throat and he gasps, blood trickling out of his mouth.

I lie there panting, waiting for the cannon to go off.

Waiting to be picked up.

Waiting to go home.

* * *

I find myself gaining more weight each week. The morning sickness I had in the Games hasn't stopped. I'm trying to deny the truth; I don't want it to be true, and yet...I do—I'm pregnant with Gleam's child.

I can't believe I allowed that to happen. I'm too young!

I have no clue what to do.

I haven't said anything to my parents, but I'm sure they know. I mean...I'm almost half the size of a halibut. I wish my father would say something to _me_.

We are now living in the Victor's Village, in a huge house on the beach. It's absolutely beautiful. But the only things on my mind right now—as I lean on the third–floor balcony, staring at the sea—are my father, my pregnancy, and how I'm going to deal with it. I can't abort the poor thing; it's already alive. I don't want to give it up for adoption, because it's the last thing I have of Gleam besides the bracelet he gave me.

What if President Snow comes along and executes me? I really don't think he's happy with tributes getting knocked up during the Games.

I start to cry silently. Hot tears fall down my cheeks and sting my eyes.

I miss Gleam so much. I play with the bracelet that was originally his token. I've been wearing it since I got out of the Games. It's bright, glittering silver, and broad with five rows of diamonds covering every inch of the outside; a smooth, cold silver band on the inside of the bracelet has the message, 'I belong the champion of the Games'. I cry a little bit harder, thinking of Gleam and this sentence. I firmly believe he should have won...I should have stayed with him instead of running. Maybe Dominic wouldn't have killed him.

I don't want to go on the Victory Tour—that will bring more publicity to the fact that I'm pregnant. I would need a cover story. Scratch that: I _will_ need a cover story.

I suppose I could say it's Zachary's. Even though it's someone else's, he seems not to care. He fell in love with me after I won. I think I'm a replacement for Alison, but he gives me the support and love I need right now from a male.

...

I walk back into my room, drying my eyes, and stare at the dress hanging from the closet door. It is a gorgeous teal. The waist is decorated in white pearls, forming a belt. The sleeves come off to around my shoulders. And I don't even know if it will fit me anymore. I put a hand on my bulging stomach. What a cute little parasite.

It doesn't matter whether I want to go or not: it's today.

Any minute now, Faustina, Largo, and Lileia will burst through my door, showering me with smiles and tears of happiness. They will then prep me—as they did before—and gossip about what is being said about me in the Capitol.

...

My prep team bursts through the door with wide smiles.

But as soon as they get a good look at me in my white cotton nightgown, they all collectively gasp. I cover my mouth with my hand, trying not to laugh.

"Goodness...what...what happened to you?" Faustina asks, her eyes moving up and down my body. The others do the same.

"Oh, come on, guys. It's not that bad," I joke. (Their faces tell me this is not a laughing matter.) "I got pregnant." I smile sheepishly.

They all collectively gasp again, and demand to know whose it is.

"Is it Gleam's?!" Largo pipes up. I feel a sudden pang of fear go through me.

"N–no!" They're confused. I answered too quickly. "It's Zachary's."

I hope they don't catch my lie. The looks that they're giving me say they do, but none of them calls my bluff.

"Well...anyway, Largo," Faustina says, dismissing the matter. (_Bullet dodged?_) Largo turns his attention. "Go adjust Aqua's dress." She pulls up a chair and motions for me to sit.

I slowly sit, automatically placing my hand on my stomach.

"You know...for being fat...you look really cute pregnant."

I think it's supposed to be a compliment, so I smile.

Soon begins the horrendous remaking sequence. I hate this. I always feel violated. My hair plucked, my face caked with makeup, my nails heavy with polish, and my hair stiff with spray. I let them do their job without any complaints, though. They're extra careful not to use any products that would harm my baby.

Eventually, Largo comes back with the dress. It doesn't exactly look any different than before, but when they slip it onto my naked body, it fits like a glove. I smile at how comfortable it is.

"I love silk," I muse out loud.

They go on to tell me a history of silk that I really don't want to hear.

The remake takes an entire hour.

* * *

I hear a soft knocking at my door. Largo opens it, and freezes as he sees who's standing outside. "Aqua Rio?" I hear the sinister voice of President Snow.

If my face didn't have so much makeup on it, you'd see it go pale.

I start to stand, but Snow puts his hand up. "I would like to speak with you alone."

My prep team hurries out, and Snow steps in. I smell blood on him, mixing with salty air from the open window. It's not a good smell. He pulls a chair from the desk, and sets it in front of mine. He sits and crosses his legs official–like.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask him, trying to mask my fear.

"I don't know. Did you?" he counters.

His eyes travel to my enlarged chest, and finally rest on my stomach. I take a deep breath and run a hand over the bracelet nervously.

"Nothing that I can account for," I say, my voice matching the seriousness in his.

His eyes snap back to mine. They are cold, and bear into my soul.

"Really? Say—who is the father of that child, exactly?" he asks with a coy smile. I don't match it. I keep staring.

"Zachary Shellhammer," I answer matter–of–factly.

"I see. Well...you had better make sure Panem knows that. On the Victory Tour, make sure people know that it isn't Gleam's." He smirks at the fear that flashes in my eyes. "We keep..._excellent_ watch on our tributes, Miss Rio." He winks at me.

Cameras. They had cameras in the room. They watched us have sex. That's disturbing.

"I will," I whisper. My voice is caught in my throat; I can barely say that.

I can't believe this is happening.

I can't breathe.

"Good. I'll leave you to it, then." He starts to walk out of my room. He stops, and turns to me before he leaves. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

The odds are not in my favor. They won't be until I have this child. I really hope it's a girl—that way, she'll look more like me instead of Gleam.

Zachary makes his way in. I didn't even know he was here.

"Hey. I came to tell you good luck, but, uh...since I passed President Snow on my way up, I see you might need me to go with you." I should be extremely upset, but his charming smile keeps me from being so.

"It appears so." I smile at him.

He walks over to me and places his hand under my chin. He kisses me passionately, and I close my eyes, melting into the kiss. My heart stings every time I do anything intimate with him. I can't help but feel sad. I miss Gleam; I want to be intimate with Gleam. I promised myself I wouldn't take anyone else. But as soon as I found out I was pregnant, that would not have been a smart idea.

He pulls away, feeling my withdrawal. "I'll wait for you downstairs."

I can hear the pain in his voice.

I want to tell him I'm sorry, but I can't bring myself to apologize for still being in love with Gleam—Gleam was the first person I ever loved, ever had sex with, ever...had a child with. I can't just replace him like that.

I watch Zachary leave.

Lileia pokes her head in, and makes her way over to me. "Don't cry...you'll ruin your makeup, and you'll look ugly," she whispers. Trying to comfort me, I think.

I keep silent, unsure how to react. This confusion allows me to stop crying. She touches up my makeup and helps me out of my chair, not that I need much help. I don't see why people keep viewing me as fragile. I'm only six months along.

I make my way downstairs and see my parents at the kitchen table. Pearl must be in her room. Yorik comes running, but stops a couple of feet in front of me, remembering. He hugs me as best he can and puts his hands around my stomach.

"I can hear its heart beating!" he exclaims happily.

"Don't yell at the poor thing," I scold him, smiling.

"It can hear me?" he asks, his eyes wide with amazement. I nod, giggling. "Hi, baby! How are you doing in there? This is your Uncle Yorik! I can't wait for you to be born so I can play with you! I bet you'll be adorable! Or if you're a boy, you'll be awesome!"

"Yorik, let your sister go, she has her tour to do." My mother smiles.

I'm so glad she's accepting of it.

My father doesn't say anything. In fact, he puts his coffee cup down and walks into a room that I'm not in. I feel hurt and abandoned. My mother gives me a sympathetic look and goes to find my father, hopefully to talk some sense into him.

Yorik moves so I can go to the front door. Zachary is waiting for me outside. It's such a nice day.

Zachary takes my hand. "You look beautiful."

I kiss his cheek. His smile gets wider at my show of affection.

He walks me to the Falcon. The Capitol decided that since I was brought into the Games on it, why not let me go on the Victory Tour with it? The ladder is let down; Zachary and I grab hold, and allow it to freeze us and take us aboard.

* * *

Our first stop is, of course, District 12. I don't like the idea of going to the coal–mining district. It sounds...dirty.

I prepare myself. I have no clue what the hell I'm going to say. Luckily, the Capitol gives me something pre–made; I'm extremely grateful for that.

We get out on the stage, and there is silence. No one claps. I completely understand: I'm a Career; I'm the one that made it out while their children died. The mayor reads the speech she is given to congratulate me. When she's done, two District 12 people hand me a very large and heavy plaque. Zachary (who has been standing behind me the entire time) takes it with ease, and holds it as if it's a notebook. I say the scripted thank–you with a fake smile and fake gratitude.

Oh, jeez. District 11 is going to be hell.

I killed the female in 11. I can't imagine the looks her family is going to give me. I don't even think I remember her name. Guilt claws at me.

...

I don't look at the plaque. Zachary tries to show it to me to make me smile, but his attempts fail.

I stare blankly out the window...then remember Snow's words. Make Panem think it's Zach's baby. I have to be more lovey-dovey with Zach. This is awful—not because of that, but because I'm forced to be that way, instead of allowing me to get that way over time.

The District 11 square seems as dirty as 12, but at least it smells good and I can actually breathe the air. As the mayor reads his congratulatory speech, I make eye contact with the girl's family. (I don't know if it actually is or not, but by their more intense glares I assume it is.) I back into Zachary more. In response, he puts his arms around me. I feel comforted by his warm body against mine. I say my scripted thank–you after Zachary leaves to take my plaque.

I get a pang in my heart, and look at the family. "I'm sorry," I say to them, a whimper escaping my lips and tears starting to swell. I really do feel sorry. I killed her so brutally.

The family keeps glaring.

I don't want to be here anymore.

I move quickly back to the Falcon, sitting on board and waiting for Zachary. He finally comes after setting the plaque down, and he has a worried expression.

"What happened back there?" he asks, cupping my face in his hands.

"I...I can't take those hateful looks. They all despise me!" I take one of his arms in my hand.

"Why does it matter what they think? You're a hero in your own district." He looks sympathetic, but I can tell he still doesn't get it. I still see confusion; I feel the tense frustration in his hands. He's getting fed up with me.

"I killed their daughter. Not only killed her, I made her suffer in a momentary lapse of sanity." I whisper the last part of my sentence. I can't help but let out another whimper.

I press my face into his chest, and he puts an arm around my shoulders and pets my head with the other one. "You did it to protect Gleam." Even though I can hear bitterness in his voice, mixed with compassion, his words still make me stop crying. I sniffle, and look at him with a small smile. "Plus the way you took her down with your trident was awesome."

I laugh lightly, and give him that goofy smile I gave Gleam on the roof—the smile that would look stupid on anyone else. He laughs a little, and kisses me softly. I thank him in my head for being here for me. I wonder if Gleam approves of my decision.

...

Going through Districts 10, 9, and 8 is a breeze. I play up my lovey–doveyness on Zachary a lot more.

Now it's time for District 7. I killed the male tribute here. I believe his name was Jake.

'Jake Hall', maybe?

I look at the woman closest to the stage on the right helplessly. There's not a lot I can say, except, 'Sorry I didn't let him live.' I don't think it would be good to say that.

After I read my scripted thank–you, I apologize as I have done before. I leave the stage, but not as quickly as the first time, since I didn't go crazy and make him suffer. His death was quick.

...

The next place I'm scared of going is District 2.

Dominic and Lila's families—the two 'allies' that I had during the Games...I'll be surprised if they don't jump onstage and try to kill me.

After my scripted thank–you, I give them a piece of my mind. "Lila and Dominic...were extremely good fighters. You should be proud of how well they did."

I can't think of anything else to say. I don't want to offend anyone and make them mad at me. So I leave it at that. The only family I care about is Dominic's.

I hated Lila, so her family can shove it. She deserved to die.

...

Zachary doesn't look at me as we travel to District 1. I don't blame him; he knows what's coming, I'm not ready to accept it yet. I fiddle with the bracelet the whole way there.

As I stand on the stage, I take in the beauty of this city. Gleam wasn't kidding—this place is amazing. I can see why he loved his home so much. Everything here is pretty.

I take a look at Gleam's family; I can tell it's his family because they resemble him. I have to bite my lip. Zachary notices my struggle to keep from bawling, and puts his hand on my shoulder.

I don't even say my scripted thank–you.

I look them straight in the eyes. "Gleam...was...he was...amazing in every way. I...I loved him...it should have been me!" I break out into tears and almost fall to my knees. Zachary catches me. I can't breathe because of how hard I'm crying.

Zachary sighs and picks me up bridal–style with a small grunt. He carries me back to the Falcon. I don't stop crying until hours later, when I have to do my own district's celebration.

...

I get applause. By now, I'm back to smiling; I don't know how he does it, but Zach has a way with calming me down. (Tonight, I guarantee I'll be crying my eyes out.)

The mayor reads his speech, and I read the thank–you.

"Nolan was one of the best out there. It's a shame to lose a good District Four fighter. But he helped me regain District Four victory!" As I call this out, the crowd is actually happy for once.

...

That night, I sit at the silent dinner table. There is a nice display of whatever Dad caught, grilled and spiced to perfection by my mother. I pick at the fish.

"We saw you on the television. You looked beautiful," my mother says.

"She looked pitiful, like she wasn't happy to win," my uncle grunts.

I turn my gaze on him, slightly angry.

Pearl snickers at his comment. "Yeah, you looked really pitiful when you fell to your knees and started crying!" I shoot a glare at her. Boy, what I wouldn't give to put a scar on her face like I did Lila's.

"Pearl...eat your food," Dad says. He doesn't look at me, yet he's sitting right across from me. He's quite skilled in ignoring people.

Zachary takes my hand gently under the table.

"So...Zachary," Mom starts. (He turns his attention to her.) She sits right next to Dad. "Do you plan on marrying Aqua?"

Unfortunately, I'm drinking something when Mom asks this question; I cough, choking on my water. Zach pats my back to help. He's successful, and I start panting lightly, catching my breath.

"Well...I had it planned out at some point. I was hoping maybe after she has her baby," Zach admits. I look at my father. I can tell he isn't happy.

"Well, you already made her pregnant, so she says. Why not marry her now?" My father looks us dead in the eyes with a hard expression.

My mother hits him. "Triton!"

I put my head in my hands, and rest my elbows on the table. Why me?

Zach blushes lightly and looks down. "Well...I mean...I don't exactly have a ring for her yet...and I want the proposal to be special." He smiles a bit as he looks away. There's something in his eyes.

Is that...passion?

My father looks at me for the first time since I got back from the Games. "You are a disgrace. You don't even tell us you had sex. Then you lie to us about the father of your child. Do you think we're stupid?"

I fight back tears as I take my elbows off of the table. "No, Daddy, I—"

"Who do you think you are?! You may have survived that Game...but you are dead to me," he sneers.

My heart breaks.

He quickly gets up, and knocks his chair down in the process. He storms to his and my mother's room. We all hear the door slam. The noise makes me jump. I start to cry uncontrollably.

I get up and sulk to my room. I didn't even eat anything, but I feel like throwing up.

I lay in my bed, still crying hard, when I hear my door open softly. I don't know who it is, and I don't care. I roll to lie on my side, so that my back is facing the door. The person that entered my room closes the door softly, and crawls in with me and puts their strong arms around me.

I realize it's Zach when I feel soft, warm lips press against my neck. I can't stop crying. My body shakes from the impact of my father telling me I'm a disgrace. He takes one of my hands in his and moves it down to my stomach, and rubs my stomach gently.

"My Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea. My Bonnie lies over the ocean, O bring back my Bonnie to me," Zach sings.

I smile as his voice soothes me. He kisses my head, and continues to kiss my neck softly. I let out soft moans. Suddenly, I feel his breath on my ear. It arouses me strangely.

"I love you, Aqua," he whispers, still rubbing my stomach gently and slowly.

"I...I love you...too, Zach," I whisper back. Even if I hesitated, he seems happy. That makes perfect sense: I haven't told him I love him at all.

I want every night to end like this, with Zach holding me.

I imagine the rest of my days until this baby is born are going to be like today, minus the Victory Tour, add more of Dad ignoring me.

* * *

Three months later, at eleven at night, I wake up to an intense pain in my abdomen. I bolt up to a sitting position and let out a scream. Zach nearly falls out of the bed, startled.

"Aqua, are you—?" He gets a good look at my face, and instantly gets out of bed. "Breathe! Just breathe, everything's going to be all right!" He runs to my parents' room and informs them of what's going on.

"Oh, Aqua!" my mom exclaims as she comes into my room.

Zachary carries me carefully down the stairs. He sets me in a wheelchair, and my parents (of course, Dad only came because Mom made him) escort me to the hospital.

This is worse than when Dominic broke my arm. As I'm admitted to the hospital, I start crying. I'm squeezing Zach's hand, cutting the circulation off. I'm surprised he hasn't lost it yet. By the look on his face, he is too.

It's another painful hour before they can get me into the delivery room. I ask for my epidural right before. They lay me on the bed, and I put my feet in the stirrups. I shouldn't feel awkward about people seeing my feminine parts, but I still am. The pain is still excruciating as the contractions get worse. I scream.

"Excuse me, you can't be in here!" a nurse yells at Zachary.

He turns on her, glaring. "I'm the father, of course I'm allowed here." Then he quickly moves to take my hand. I squeeze his hand, once again cutting his circulation.

"Push! Push and breathe!" my doctor tells me. I scream each time I push, and at each contraction. I can feel my feminine parts being stretched as the baby starts to come out. "I can see its head!"

"It fucking hurts so much!"

Zach kisses my head.

"Just keep pushing!" the doctor says.

After grueling hours I let out a scream, and the life that has been growing inside me appears, crying and bloody.

The doctor cuts the umbilical cord, and I hold my child.

No—not just my child. His, as well. When the baby girl holds my finger tightly, she quiets, and I can see Gleam's eyes look at me. I start to cry from happiness.

"What are you going to name her?" my mother asks.

I look at her with a wide, exhausted smile. Zachary kisses my cheek. I look to him, to see if he wants any say.

"You pick a name, sweetheart." He smiles at me.

"Coral."

"Coral Rio," the doctor repeats. "It has a nice ring to it."

I smile at my baby girl. She's so beautiful. I can't believe I'm holding her in my arms, it's like a dream.

...

They have to give her her shots, and keep her here for a while before I can bring her home. I lie back and close my eyes. _Gleam…did you see her? She's beautiful, isn't she?_ I think to myself, pretending he can hear me.

I feel soft lips on my cheek and know it's Zachary.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you too," I whisper back, with no hesitation.


	2. District 1 Reaping

**Minte Hawbek****, 16 ~ District 1 Female**

**XOXOFutureFame**

"Ow, ow, OW! Let go, it hurts!"

I let out a final shriek, yanking my head out of my mom's grip. Yet the blue hairbrush remains stubbornly entangled within my dark auburn hair. You learn to be stubborn once you've spent long enough in the Hawbek household.

Mom frowns, sighing heavily. "Stop being so dramatic." ("Look who's talking!") "Don't you want to look good for the reaping? Besides, your cousin's volunteering today, and she needs all the support she can get—"

"No, she doesn't," I state bluntly, ignoring the smothering glare I receive.

Mom lectures on respect or something of the sort. Just then, three loud raps come from the front door. Dad barrels down the stairs, tie loose around his neck, and Mom runs after him. Perfect timing. I'm about to escape to my room when I hear shouts; curiosity gets the better of me.

Downstairs, Dad and his brother Alabaster are arguing in the living room: a common sight.

Wonder, a good friend of Dad, is between them, trying to be heard above Mom's voice shrilling for everyone to _please come into the kitchen where we can discuss this over a cup of tea_.

Alabaster's first to see me in the doorway, observing with confusion.

"There she is! The culprit!" he shouts, pointing accusingly.

I blink. "Um, 'hi' to you too, Uncle Alabaster. Fancy seeing you here."

"Don't give me that attitude!"

Wonder finally gets Dad and Alabaster to sit at the couch, and Mom retreats to get teacups. Then he explains the situation—tries to; it's hard for him to get much of a word in.

"You see," he begins. "Precious, this year's female volunteer—"

"My daughter!" Alabaster declares proudly.

"You don't say?" Dad retorts. "So that's why she's always around whenever we come over."

"—is unfortunately _sick_. In her current state she's too weak—"

"She is _not_ too weak!"

District 1 is a "Career district", as the lowly life forms of the weaker, non–Career districts put it. They say it like it's an insult: that we are stronger, richer, and all in all better than them. Dad's a victor, which makes me a step higher than the rest of District 1—the best of the best. He single–handedly won the eighth Hunger Games (that's how he puts it), and I am about to follow in his footsteps.

To decide the volunteers every year, District 1 holds a pre–reaping. The top students of the Career academy (otherwise known as me) show off their skills to the previous victors, and they choose whomever appears most promising. Me—obviously.

Choosing Precious shows their horrid taste and bad eye. I ended up Second Place. _Second_.

Finishing last just means that you're not good enough; but finishing second means you _could _have been first, _but_ you weren't good enough. And the only thing worse than that is finishing second to your cousin (my cousin, especially)—someone you see on a daily basis.

"Mr. Hawbek—no, not you, Mylar; the other one—I'm sorry, but—"

I watch the argument like a ball match.

Wonder raises his voice, getting frustrated. "And _a_–_ny_–**_way_**_! _Alabaster…suspects you of 'intoxicating' Precious."

Mom chooses now to come in with the tea. "What?!" The tray tumbles out of her hands. "Minte French Hawbek—you did what? My daughter would not commit such an immoral crime!" She turns to me. "You're innocent, aren't you, honey?"

For a moment, I'm stunned. How did they figure out?

I realize the whole room is watching me.

"No!" I say a little too quickly. "No, of course not. I mean, yes, I am innocent; and no, I did not 'intoxicate' her." I roll my eyes, playing clueless. "That makes it sounds like I got her drunk or something."

"See?" Mom declares, forcing a smile.

Alabaster is about to make a scathing comment when someone scoffs. My brother Leather is on the staircase, peeking down at us. "Uh, yeah you did, Minte. You're not as good of a liar as you think you are; it's kind of obvious."

Silence.

"_LEATHER_!" I shout. "Shut up! You have no idea what you're talking about, you little—! Just—shut up, you...stupid."

"A-HA!" Alabaster says, leaping up in triumph. "I KNEW IT! She shouldn't be allowed to volunteer!"

'_Oops_,' Leather mouths, trying but failing to look guilty. I glare, unable to murder him with Mom in the room.

Dad pauses, comprehending the situation. Strangely, he doesn't look all that angry—the polar opposite of Mom. I can practically hear his brain thinking, '_Improvise_.'

"Quite the contrary," Dad says slowly. "This could work to our advantage."

More silence.

"What?" I'm not sure who asks (maybe me).

"We need a tribute like that. Think about it: if that's what she's willing to do to her own relatives, what would she do to utter strangers?"

Wonder seems to be considering it. "True," he agrees. "Though Minte didn't _kill _Precious." (I roll my eyes.)

Mom interrupts. "Are you suggesting we should have a psychopathic daughter?"

"Minte already is a psycho—"

"SHUT UP, LEATHER!"

Dad grabs my arm, pulling me back as I prepare to attack my brother. Leather escapes to the kitchen.

"Absolutely not!" Alabaster snaps, still looking as if he'd like to wring my neck. "She has unjustly poisoned the proper volunteer, and could therefore ruin District One's chances of bringing home a victor!"

Dad clears his throat. "Alabaster, think outside the box a bit. You've always been so narrow–minded."

"Excuse me?! _You're_ telling _me_ to stop being so 'narrow–minded'? Now that is funny."

I speak up. "Personally, I think Precious had it coming."

Honestly, these silences are becoming rather unnerving.

"How so?" Wonder asks.

"Well, remember two years back? Yeah—when I was fourteen and won the pre–reaping, and was supposed to volunteer?" Actually, I wasn't. Not if you look at it fairly: me winning then is what caused Dad to be taken off the pre–reaping panel yesterday. "You know how Precious just so happened to _accidentally_ break my arm while we were training?"

"That was not Precious's fault," Alabaster says stiffly. "You were careless and unable to control your own actions."

I choose to ignore him. "I returned the favor; I only thought it was fair."

"Excuse me?! That incident has nothing to do with—"

"Case closed," Dad says flatly. "Bye."

He turns to Wonder, who says nothing, and takes that as confirmation. Picks up the phone, and calls a familiar number that usually means Peacekeepers come rushing. Alabaster starts up a rant before they can drag him out the door.

Dad turns to me, muttering under his breath: "Tassel was always my favorite brother…"

Then, "Get ready. You're going to the Capitol."

**...**

**ONE WEEK AGO. . .**

I shove through a clothing rack, eyebrows arching higher as yards of bright patterns flash by.

People actually wear these things?

Aunt Fedora sees my face, and pats my shoulder fondly. "Delightful choices. Perhaps a bit edgy, but don't worry!"

We're at one of the swankiest clothing shops in District 1, where the outfits are at Capitol standard—and I don't mean in a good way. My Aunt Fedora is helping me choose a new reaping dress.

"Uh," I choke, walking past a neon–green one that could pass as a washcloth.

Aunt Fedora looks rather offended. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

I'm about to make a comment on how this is just a tad too much for me.

But then I spot one that might do it—until I see that it's completely and utterly transparent; I want to look like I'm at least wearing _something_.

"More sparkle, darling. No, no, no…absolutely not. So plain! Honestly, what are designers thinking these days?"

I blink. She apparently has a different definition of 'plain'.

She smiles sympathetically. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Perhaps I'm going a bit too fast—you're not exactly that into fashion, are you?" I open my mouth to protest; I'm fully educated in the fashion department, thank you. "Don't worry, hon', I'm here to help you find something with just the right amount of _oomph_."

I cringe, not quite sure she would like what 'oomph' means.

Waving a salesman over, Aunt Fedora sets off for the fitting rooms with an entire rack trailing behind her. Immediately, half the outfits are rejected. "Have you no taste?!" she yells at the salesman, turning on her heel and stomping toward the ridiculously expensive section, dragging me along.

The salesman looks dumbfounded, seeing as she chose most of the rejected outfits. He stumbles after us, mumbling apologies.

I stand back and watch in amusement as Aunt Fedora practically tears through these racks. I shake my head quickly at most of the things she holds up.

Finally, exhausted and defeated, she raises a cream–colored dress with a lacy neckline dotted with peals. Feeling a bit sorry for her, though hiding a smile, I agree to try it on. She claps enthusiastically as I scurry into a fitting room.

"Oooh, it looks perfect!" she exclaims. Then pauses. "Well, the neck's a bit too small, and the color isn't terribly flashy, and..." She proceeds to reel off some more flaws. "But still!"

I tilt my head slightly, scrunching my nose as I examine myself in the mirror. The skirt barely covers my thighs, and the back is bare from the waist up. But I don't look absolutely horrible.

"Cream sets nicely with your hair, of course." She's on a roll. "And you'll have to wear heels with it. And it's a bit plain, but jewelry can fix that right up—"

"And Dad would flip," I cut in.

Aunt Fedora pauses, surveying me momentarily. "Of course, you're absolutely right." The salesman looks befuddled as she turns to him and says matter–of–factly, "Mylar Hawbek shall be very angry to see his daughter in this, don't you think?"

The salesman pales, probably imagining Dad stomping over to sue him and the store.

Unsure what else to do, he gives a small nod.

A hot pink grin spreads across her face, as if this is something wonderful.

I'm not given a chance to argue. She flits to the front of the store, plops the dress at the cash register, and whips out her credit card. I'm hurried out with it folded in a shopping bag, still a bit dazed.

She smiles brightly. "Fancy a scone?"

**...**

**PRESENT TIME**

I dig through my oversized closet, which holds more clothing than I've ever needed.

Expensive fabrics, custom–made, outfits imported from the Capitol…

Pushing to the back, I slide the cream–colored dress off its hanger. I run a hand over the gauzy material, hold it over my pajamas and admire myself in the mirror. I put it on and strike a pose, pouting haughtily. I look ridiculous, yet somehow glamorous.

A girlish giggle escapes.

I look at the clock. 7:45. Dammit—the reaping is at 8:30.

Hastily, I pull my curls back. There's no time for proper combing, and my hair needs more than that anyway. I squint and pinch my lips, making them swell slightly and appear fuller, then smear on some lip–gloss and apply a minimal amount of eye makeup.

I spend more time than I should debating what shoes to wear. My usual combat boots would be the sensible option; they're ideal for running, and can aim a good kick in case someone tries to challenge me for volunteer. But they would clash. Heels, on the other hand, would look perfect…though I'll probably break my neck if I try to run.

At the end, I go with heels.

"Don't I look ravishing, Tulle?" I declare grandly, standing in my older brother's doorway.

Tulle glances as he sorts through his shirts. "You look like you're about to head to a strip joint."

"Tulle!"

"Okay, a nice strip joint."

"_Tulle_!"

"A nice, dignified strip joint." He picks up a blue, collared shirt and gives it the sniff test.

I glare.

"Why does the top half"—he points to my hair, yanked into a messy ponytail—"look like it's about to go fishing, while the bottom half is ready for a party?"

"It's called style, which you obviously have none of," I sniff airily. "Besides, I'd look like a freak if everything matched."

"Oh? Is that why your eyes are crooked?"

"_What_?"

"—and one ear is lower than the other?"

"Shut up!" I snap, still studying myself in his mirror. _Oh, gosh, my eyes_ are_ crooked! Maybe it's my eyebrows. When did I last get them waxed?_

"Mom and Dad never told you they got you on sale, huh? Fifty percent off."

I storm downstairs for breakfast. I sit at the dining table, and the maid slides a platter of french toast in front of me. My younger brothers—Leather and Gild—are already cramming their faces.

Leather looks over my outfit and rolls his eyes. "Are you going to the reaping or a night club?" he asks in between sloshes of milk.

"I definitely _do not_—" I reach to smack him, unsuccessfully. He smirks as I stumble off my chair.

"Well, it's true."

"I look lovely, don't I, Gild?" I ask, turning to my youngest brother, desperate to hear _something_ good about my appearance.

"Dad's going to kill you," Gild replies innocently.

My family is _so_ unhelpful.

...

All of District 1 is dressed to the nines. Everywhere I look, there are feathers, jewels, and prints of animals I've never even heard of. We're sure to put the lower districts to shame.

Everyone is catching up on the latest _who's going out with who;_ _who broke up with who; who beat who in training_, and _who's angry at who and why_. District 1 is a tight–knit community, where everyone knows everyone else. Even though everyone might not _like_ everyone else.

As soon as I get out of Tulle's car (parked in a space reserved for this year's _volunteers_), my brothers abandon me, heading in separate directions to find their friends. I'm eavesdropping on gossip about the latest fight in training when I feel a sharp nail tap me on the shoulder. I spin to face a pretty girl around my age. I recognize her from school, but can't remember her name.

"Uh, hi...Sapphire, right?"

"Selenite—but you were close!" she says, in an overly chirpy voice that gets on my nerves. "You're Precious Hawbek's cousin, right? Minty? Aren't you so excited? I mean—"

My annoyance turns to anger. '_Precious Hawbek's cousin_'? That's worse than being known as _Mylar's daughter_. And you would think she'd at least have the decency to get my name right.

The smile on my face must look close to a snarl, but Selenite doesn't seem fazed.

"Actually," I reply, sugar–coating my words, "didn't you hear yet? Precious got sick at the last minute. I feel so bad for her, the poor girl." Either I'm a good actress, or she's gullible. "I'm replacing her."

Selenite gasps in a way that's almost comical, barely murmuring a "Congratulations!" before scurrying off to share this valuable piece of gossip.

Peacekeepers walk around, breaking up groupies and hustling everyone to sign in.

I take my place in line, purposefully near the end. A wave of nausea washes over me as the ones in front have their fingers pricked and move on. And soon, it's my turn. It's strange how I can break my wrist and only wince, but am scared to death by a tiny needle.

A Peacekeeper extends the needle toward my pointer finger; a small shriek emerges from the back of my throat, and without thinking, I jerk my hand back. He eyes me in confusion mixed with annoyance.

"We need to take your blood sample, sweetheart."

"Of course," I stammer, crossing my hands behind my back. A few seconds tick by, and when I still haven't uncrossed my hands he becomes pissed.

"Come on, we haven't got all day! There are people behind you, so either cooperate or step out of line." He gestures to the people behind me.

"Oh, grow up!"

I've started to uncross my hands when I'm shoved out of the way. A small, dark–haired girl with pigtails stomps forward, holding out her hand. The Peacekeeper takes her blood sample, and she storms away.

_I just got told to 'grow up' by someone four years younger than me_.

Determined not to be outdone by a twelve–year–old, I bravely step up. He rolls his eyes, muttering "_Finally_."

...

Nursing my wounded finger, I take my place among the other sixteen–year–olds as the mayor begins his speech.

"In the mid twenty–fifth century," he says, "North America—spanning all corners of Panem and farther—began to show signs of cracking under wildfires, earthquakes, floods, tornadoes, hurricanes, famines, droughts, and civil war. As the rest of the world looked on."

The sun beats down, and I fan myself with the back of my dress.

"Three hundred years later, North America was unrecognizable. The sea had swallowed so much land. What had once been the brightest, most modern cities lie in broken heaps—dilapidated. Pitch dark at night, crawling with vermin and disease. So few people were still alive, most of them skin and bones, that it seemed as good an apocalyptic wasteland as those in any film that had ever existed. There was murder and anarchy. As the rest of the world looked on."

Crap. I tug desperately at the top of my dress; the knot in the halter strap holding it up has come undone. I reach back to redo the bow, but only succeed in making the dress slide lower.

"But just when the rest of the world had counted them out, the people of North America found the strength to rise up off of their knees and begin civilization anew. It would be the greatest civilization in history, more prosperous and efficient than any before. And thus, Panem was born. It shuts out the world because when it was in need of help, the world shut it out."

I give up and thrust my chest out. It doesn't work. I look as if I'm doing some ridiculous waltz with myself as I struggle to remain decent. The cameras are scanning the crowd as the mayor continues, and I catch myself momentarily on the large screens mounted on either side of the stage. I stop.

"No citizen of Panem would go unemployed, the noble and compassionate Capitol vowed—everyone would have a purpose: to serve the greater good of the collective. In District One, this meant adding the luxuries of comfort, beauty, and elegance to an otherwise harsh and unforgiving reality."

I scan the crowd, and thankfully no one's looking my way. I catch my friend Lavish standing five girls away from me.

"_Lavish_!" I hiss.

Lavish sees me and waves. I wave back, and my dress almost falls again.

"However, the districts were not as enlightened as the Capitol and didn't learn from their mistakes. They were barbaric and treasonous. They made attempts on the president's life. They destroyed the shining metropolis that had protected them and given them everything. They killed innocent people—children. But in the end they got what they deserved, and order was restored, all rebels punished or executed. Civilization was saved."

My distress must be pretty obvious. Lavish hurries over, smirks a bit when she sees the issue, then redoes the knot expertly. She takes a spot next to me, shoving aside the girl once in her place.

"Uh, _excuse you_," the girl snaps. Amethyst; she's in one of my classes.

She's ignored.

"And so, every year, the twelve remaining districts must sacrifice two of their own children to the Capitol they so wronged. They mustn't be angry, for they brought this on themselves, and the Capitol is enlightened and merciful—one of their sacrifices may be allowed to return home. It is a time for repentance and a time for thanks."

"Rumor has it you're volunteering," Lavish whispers. I'm surprised that the news traveled so fast.

"Yeah," I reply, not looking away from the stage that I had zero interest in seconds ago, pretending as if _oh_,_ it's no biggie _when I'm really screaming inside.

I catch Amethyst looking our way, trying to catch snippets of our conversation.

"In District One, five of our sacrifices have been returned to us: Silka Barringer, in the fourth Hunger Games; Mylar Hawbek, in the eighth Hunger Games; Wonder Royal, in the twentieth Hunger Games; Glamor Delsbey, in the twenty–fifth Hunger Games; and finally, Glitz Fenon, in the thirty–third Hunger Games."

I automatically stand straighter when they call out my dad's name, aware of the looks thrown my way.

Our escort—_Faustina Glassapple_ (honestly)—walks, balanced upon five–inch heels, across the stage. The fluorescent lights reflect freakishly off her dyed golden hair and grass–green skin. She goes into a speech about how honored she is to serve District 1.

I tune her out, and do what I've always done: try to estimate exactly how old she is. She has been escort for thirty–eight years, from the very first Hunger Games. She has to be in her fifties at the least, yet looks as every other Capitol citizen looks—ageless. As soon as she chirps the traditional, "Ladies first!" my attention turns immediately to her smooth green hands as they reach into the glass ball.

I tense, as do those around us.

"Glitter Argent!"

A blonde girl emerges from the eighteen–year–olds, head held high. She walks with a haughty swagger and small smirk. I recognize her from the pre–reaping, where she came in eighth. She's acting like _she's got this_. As if the thought that someone will volunteer for her has never crossed her mind.

_Uh, no_._ I don't think so, hon'_.

I wait until Faustina has called for volunteers before taking my time walking up the aisle in a similar fashion, almost mockingly. I pause at the microphone to blow a kiss to the crowd.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I say sweetly, more to Glitter than them.

Faustina gives me a wide smile as a fuming Glitter sulks off the stage. A few choice expletives are spat in my direction. I wave tauntingly to her retreating back.

"Lovely; we have a volunteer! What's your name, darling?"

I beam to the cameras. I've been rehearsing this moment for ages, debating what tone I should use; whether to smile or not, and if so, how to smile; what to say, how to say it; and right down to how I should _walk_. "Minte French—"

"_Minte French Hawbek!_" I jump, nearly falling over in my heels, at Dad's deep bellow. "Young lady, where is your dress?"

I look down, afraid that it's fallen off without my knowing. It hasn't. Thank God.

An awkward silence takes over, and the only sounds are a few snickers from the crowd below.

Dad registers in horror that this _is_ my dress. "It's of inappropriate length, and I do not approve—"

"Dad!" Forget going into the Games; I've died about fifty times here.

Wonder pulls Dad—who had jumped to his feet—back into his chair, and leans over to whisper something in his ear.

Faustina turns to me, desperate to smooth the situation. "Uh, Minte. Wow, daughter of a victor! So it runs in the family?"

I barely hear her. _Wonderful_. Now I'll be known as the girl who got scolded by her dad. A real threat I'll appear to the other tributes.

I don't pay much attention to the rest of the reaping. The male tribute is Chrome Stevens, who's seventeen and not that bad–looking. But that's it. We shake hands and are taken to the Justice Building, where we're led into separate rooms for the goodbyes.

...

Collapsing into the nearest chair, I bury my head in my hands. The room is actually quite nice, with leather couches lining the perimeter of a low glass table. There are no windows; the only sources of light are ceiling lamps, giving an artificial feel. I'm too nervous to appreciate any of this. So much has gone wrong. Dad...the incident earlier...and my hair!

I groan and shake my head, my cheeks still warm from embarrassment. Perhaps I'm overreacting, but first impressions matter more than anything else, and the one I made wasn't good.

The door crashes open. I look up, expecting it to be my family. Instead, it's my friends Allure and Cheer (though I don't know why I call them that).

"Oh, so it's you guys," I say, scowling—not because I'm unhappy to see them, but because it has become rather a habit.

"Hi," Allure says brightly, plopping down on one of the couches. Cheer gives a curt hello and joins him.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, as if it isn't obvious.

"_Ouch_." Allure clasps a hand over his chest in mock–pain. "Why, we only came to wish our dear friend whom we love goodbye, of course!"

I jump to my feet. "Are you saying you don't expect me to make it back, that's why you're wishing me goodbye?"

"Yes," Cheer says.

I glare at him and snap, "Wow, thanks for the support." Cheer opens his mouth, but Allure jumps in before the argument can carry on.

"Interesting performance you gave up there," Allure says. He pauses and grins. "Though if I may say so, I do approve of your choice of dress."

"Shut up," I snap, unable to think of a better comeback. Then: "Try telling that to my dad."

"_I'm_ aware of where he was coming from," Cheer says, folding his arms across his chest.

I throw my hands up in exasperation. "For heaven's sake! Have you seen the fashion catalogs? Backless is the new trend; all the prom dresses are going to be backless this year—"

The door swings open a crack, and a gruff voice says, "Your time is almost up." The door closes again.

"Such a pleasant man," Cheer says, sounding bored.

"But concise," I reply. "Which is more than I can say for you."

I hear familiar voices making their way down the hall. They stop at the door, each one requesting loudly to come in.

_Oh, lovely. They brought the whole family._

I sigh internally and sit up straighter, bracing myself.

The Peacekeeper appears at the door again, and I feel a pang of sorrow as Allure and Cheer are taken out. My parents, siblings, cousins and their parents, grandparents…all file in. Dad is in the lead, fuming.

"MINTE!"

He's purple in the face, and I worry slightly that he might be on the verge of a heart attack. However, I worry more about saving my own skin. He goes into a long speech about "modesty" and "self-respect", inserting something about "rape" here and there.

Meanwhile, I'm about to head into a fight to the death.

"Actually," my grandma Jade says suddenly, interrupting her son's rant. "I just adore it, dear! Where did you get it? I'm going to see if they have one in my size."

"SEE, DAD?" I shrill. "You're outvoted! At least someone here has decent fashion taste!"

Aunt Fedora is writing down the store name for her mom. Dad is spluttering. The rest of the family is watching the drama.

Leather has to open his mouth. "Were those your boyfriends, those guys in here before us?"

"_Boyfriends_? I don't date multiple guys at a time, thank you! Are you calling me a slu—?"

Mom clasps her hands over Gild's ears. "Watch your language, young lady!"

"Of course I'm not calling you a _slut_, sis," Leather says. "Not even one guy would date you. Don't flatter yourself."

Gild rolls his eyes, shaking himself free of Mom's grasp as I lunge at Leather. "Mom, I'm eleven. I think I know what a _slut _is."

"What is it?" Tulle asks, amused.

Gild clears his throat. "A _slut_ is someone who provides a much–needed service for the community, and sleeps with everyone—even the guy that has no shot at getting laid."

"Gild!" Mom lets out another small shriek.

Tulle nods solemnly. "Those are great people. Without them, sex crimes would definitely increase." Mom looks ready to pass out. Dad, thankfully, is busy arguing with Grandma.

I shove Leather into one of the walls. He merely shrugs, unharmed. "Is that the best you can do? I'm surprised you got chosen...oh, wait—you didn't."

_Excuse me?_

I grab a book from the bookcase (what's the point of putting that in the goodbye room, anyway? It's not like anyone would actually _read_; reading isn't a popular pastime in District 1) and proceed to chuck it across the room. It misses my brother and hits the goldfish bowl.

"Oops!" I say, wondering why a goldfish bowl is in the goodbye room.

"Poor goldfish," Leather says, as Aunt Fedora complains about getting water all over her designer high heels.

The door opens.

"It's time to go."

No one listens until another Peacekeeper repeats it firmly. One–by–one, my family turns just slightly to look at them. A few, such as my Aunt Emerald, step out the door.

"_Go,_" the Peacekeeper says, and they file out, leaving me with my thoughts. I think (as I do every reunion) how funny it is that no one in my family likes each other, yet we all love each other.

...

The train station is swarming with people and reporters, and though I suddenly don't feel like smiling, I smile anyway.

The train is sleek and silver, shaped like a bullet. Its inside is luxurious; _I'm_ impressed, even, and luxury is nothing new to me. The thick, plush carpet is a pleasant shade of plum that I decide would look great in our dining room.

Dad and the other mentors are already inside. These are people I've lived with or near all my life, so I don't feel nervous around them. I take a seat at a large glass table and scan the room. Glitz lounges in a fur–lined armchair, painting her nails robin–egg blue. The compartment is filled with the strong, bitter smell of nail polish; Silka and Glamor don't mind much, and Dad has learned to live with it, having Mom and me in the house. They're all on the couch in front of the TV, watching the reaping recaps.

My district partner is missing, and so is Wonder; I guess they're off talking somewhere.

A chandelier sways above my head, loaded down with so many jewels it looks ready to fall into the chocolate fountain underneath it any minute.

_Chocolate_—a delicacy that's been rare at our house since Mom went on that new diet. Temptation wins over self–control as always, and I reach across the lace tablecloth, plucking a strawberry off an intricately designed plate.

Dad glances over just as I'm dipping the strawberry into the rippling mocha. "Minte, what have I told you about that?" he asks sternly.

The Careers aren't allowed to have dessert; we need to stay in top fighting shape. I pout but don't protest, secretly glad for the excuse not to eat it. It all goes to the hips.

The compartment door slides open with a rush of air. Wonder enters, looking rather annoyed.

"I'm really beginning to think you had the right idea," he tells Dad. (Glamor looks over curiously from the couch.) "I got the kid to say a grand total of five words."

"'Fuck you, asshole, just die'?" Dad surmises.

"More or less. How are you doing, Minte?"

I flush slightly when Wonder looks in my direction, reminding myself that I'm over my eleven–year–old crush on him. Now that he's married Glamor and they have a kid, anyway.

"Fine—" I say, and then add: "Emotionally distressed. I'm not allowed to eat chocolate–covered strawberries."

"Ah, so the tribute abuse begins. Earlier than ever this year, I see."

Wonder moves to stand behind the couch and watch the reapings. I remember what happened during mine, and cringe.

Glamor waves me over when District 4 starts. Maria—the female volunteer—is very pretty, and I feel a twinge of jealousy. Her hair looks perfect.

Out the corner of my eye, I see Chrome in the doorway.

* * *

...

* * *

**Chrome Stevens****, 17 ~ District 1 Male**

**Faith . Trust. And. Pixi. Dust**

...

–**SIX YEARS AGO**–

A cool breeze shifts the trees' leaves, letting in a little sun. When the wind slows, dry air surrounds me again, bringing back all the heat of this late summer afternoon. I take a long drink from my water bottle.

A bird perches on a branch above me, chirping. I sigh, leaning back against the trunk and closing my eyes. It's all I hear—not the hum of the electric fence nearby, or the cars on the streets, or people shouting.

Suddenly, there's another sound; it's like a grunt and a cough at the same time. I glance down. My older brother is lying in the grass, looking at me.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Hey," he replies, the corners of his mouth inching upward.

"Hey." I wave at him, one hand gripping the branch that supports me. He returns the wave.

"Comfortable?"

"Yep," I say, beaming. Then I add, "The pre–reaping's tomorrow," knowing he already knows. He likes talking about it; that's why I bring it up.

He stares off into the cover of leaves. "I feel good about this year."

"Why?" He seems even more certain than last time.

"Well, I've been training like a maniac…and Twinkle's going to kill me if I don't spend some time with her soon...the signs are all good."

"She won't be so mad when you win."

"Which one: the pre–reaping, or the Games?"

"Both," I reply instantly. He's the greatest Career who ever lived.

He laughs; that's what he wants to hear. "I'll be covered in sweat and blood and who–knows–what–else by the time I get out of there. She better not be."

"You're really ready?"

"I'm completely ready. I wish the reaping was tomorrow."

So do I, 'cause then we could start watching the Games.

"What are you gonna' do after?"

"Nothing." I look confused. What does he mean, 'nothing'? "That's the whole point—you don't have to do anything. You don't have to go to school or work. You just sit back, relax, and spend money like it's illegal and you're not supposed to have it."

"And go to the Capitol and be a mentor."

"Yeah. Still. That beats goldsmithing or jewelry–making, or whatever else."

"Yeah, I guess...so can I move with you?"

I want a bigger house and my own room. And I can tell everybody that I live in the Victor's Village. They'll be so jealous! When I'm eighteen, I'll win and get my own house.

"Yep. All you guys, you'll be coming with," he says.

"I can't wait."

He brushes a few dark strands out of his eyes. "Better start packing."

I leap from my tree, and run through almost a half–mile of woods before emerging into the evening sun and sprinting a few blocks to our squat brick house. I barge through the heavy door so hard it slams against the wall.

"Chrome Ivory Stevens, what are you doing?" cries Mother, raising her head from the fluffy pink wig she's making. "How many times have I told you not to hit the door with the wall?" I stammer an apology as I rush through the living room.

"Stop right there and look at me!" she yells, before I reach the hallway. I reluctantly turn. The next words stop me cold. "If you slam that door one more time, you're not going to the pre–reaping."

I shudder. "Peridot says to pack...for the move."

"Well, if you want, go ahead. However, _do not_ pack your toothbrush, pajamas, teddy bear—"

I run up the stairs three at a time, my legs barely long enough.

I crash into my closed bedroom door.

Wincing, I turn the knob and ease the door open. It produces a loud creak as it swings shut behind me. I look at my messy room, then stuff clothes into a bag, leaving out the bear and the pajamas.

Hours later, Peridot pokes his head in. I wave from my perch on the bed, looking away from the window. "So," he begins, "I heard you almost lost a certain privilege."

I shake my head. Then nod.

He chuckles. "Do you think you can handle not slamming the door for a day?"

I wince. Then shrug.

"It," I say slowly, "_might_ be possible."

"This is my last chance, you know. Because of that idiot..." Peridot hisses something that I shouldn't repeat. He smiles. "Maybe help with Mystic a little? Butter Mom up a bit?"

"I don't want to," I whine. "He's annoying."

Peridot shrugs. "You'll be disappointed."

"Whatever," I grumble, sliding under the covers. "Nobody will be able to keep me away."

Peridot enters the room. "I have something for you."

"What is it?" I ask, suddenly interested. I don't get gifts that often.

He puts a thin, shiny chain around my neck, a small metal object hanging from it. "Good night," he says, returning to the doorway.

I lean against my pillows with a huge yawn.

He smiles, softly closing the door. I shut my eyes.

...

My fists are clenched, my face uncomfortably warm. Mother keeps whispering to me that I look feverish. I lean against the wall, its cool marble comfortable against my thin shirt. The floor tile causes hushed conversations to echo, and I hear Peridot's footsteps as he exits the main gymnasium. My silver ring (the gift he gave me) is hot; I grasp it tightly, trying to breathe. He moves to the center of the mass of people filling the expansive room, to stand with the other hopeful volunteers.

One of the victors steps up to the podium, clearing his throat into the microphone. Everyone shushes each other.

"Welcome," he says when we are quiet. "On behalf of my fellow victors as well as the academy trainers, I would like to thank each and every one of you for coming...unfortunately, I just don't have that kind of time.

"Suffice it to say that your presence demonstrates the highest standard of district pride: the young men brave enough to stare death in the face without flinching, and their families—who have found the strength to support them. You allow District One a special kind of freedom, and it values your sacrifice beyond measure.

Without further ado, it is my honor to present the male tribute representing our great district in the Thirty–Second annual Hunger Games."

I can feel tension in the air, like static charges arching from one person to the next. They all want this as badly as I do.

The victor reads the name, but I don't hear it; Peridot's perfectly straight posture has fallen into a slump, his head hanging a little. He places fourth—not even an honorable score. Three boys beat him...and one that I know wins. _He_ will volunteer, receiving all the honor and glory. My brother will get nothing.

Disappointed families pour through the gold–framed glass doors. I lose Peridot in the crowd, unable to see him through the shoving masses headed in every direction. I search everywhere: the shops, the square...nobody has seen him. They don't care. Why should they?

I give up and wander into the woods. I push through branches and kick through leaves, leaving a trail in the mud. If Peridot looks for me, he'll know where I am.

I walk to the front of my tree...and freeze.

A body hangs there with a frayed rope around its neck. Before I can look away, I see the swollen, purplish face and collapse to my knees, hearing a horrible scream that I realize is coming from me. I can't control it. Can't stop it. I am trapped by the reality washing over me.

The sun begins to set. I hear Mother calling for me; her voice seems different, like I'm hearing it from the other end of the tunnel. I look away and rise.

I stumble from the woods, and she starts to scold me.

"Chrome..." Her face suddenly fills with fear, seeing mine. "What's wrong?"

I can't speak. I can't even look at her as I collapse, sobbing.

Mother orders a neighbor to take me home. He looks at me with pity.

Exhaustion overtakes me, and the world goes black.

...

Mother shouts up the stairs. It used to be: "Peridot, Chrome, Mystic! Time to get dressed!" Now she says "Boys", because not saying his name is too hard to bear.

For me, it's worse that she avoids it.

My face is damp, hair neatly combed. I'm already itchy from the thought of spending hours in this prickly shirt. And the tie...my throat aches.

Before long, our family walks out together, and the crowd parts for us. Everyone knows what happened. They whisper. I'm sure my face is flaming; Mother's is.

I hate it. I hate feeling so weak.

My best friend Magni never has a car. Right now we don't either; we have to walk. The streets are too crowded.

We're herded away from the Twelve–to–Eighteens. Peridot was the only family member of age. Our escort dances around. I want to run up and scream for her to never smile again—doesn't she know 1 can't have a victor this year?!

She picks a girl. Another girl volunteers. I don't really care.

She picks a boy, the familiar name ringing. "Magnificent Eldeburn!"

Magni doesn't get far before an older boy is taking the stage steps two at a time. "Carat Howell," he says into the microphone, a proud smirk on his lips.

Four weeks from now, he will be fried in an electric trap.

...

–**PRESENT**–

I yawn, groaning softly as I stretch my arms over my head.

Mystic runs into the hallway, dark brown hair sticking up all over the place. "Guess what day it is!"

The pre–reaping. District 1 will see that I'm not, that I'll never be, that I'm better than my feeble wimp of a brother. Though I may have his black hair and blue eyes, and be exactly the same height.

_"I feel good about this year." _Unable to force myself to say those words (and not wanting to sound like Peridot anyway), I reply, "Yeah."

Mystic takes off down the stairs. I follow after I've made myself presentable.

I savor every bite of the pancakes Mother has made: the soft, fluffy insides and crisper outsides. The sweet syrup is an added bonus, something we don't always have.

We take the familiar route to the academy. Mystic turns every fifteen seconds and calls for us to walk faster. I ignore him, revealing nothing, showing no excitement nor any nerves. Younger kids look at me uneasily.

We walk through the golden doors, joining the growing crowd. I separate from my family and make my way toward the gymnasium, focusing. This is one of the most important days of my life. If not the most.

...

Gently, almost lovingly, I lift a spear, my roughened fingers caressing the smooth wood. I heft it onto my shoulder, feeling the long pole's familiar weight. Slowly draw it back, my muscles tense, prepared to spring. Send it flying into the target. I get a perfect bull's–eye. Of course I do. Anything less would be…unacceptable.

Thinking for a moment, I carefully select a worn leather sheath. This knife was brand new the year I began to train, the knife I have trained with more than any other. My fingers, sliding it out, are remembering a thousand other times. Firmly grasping the handle, I stare along the razor–sharp blade. This is a precise art. I must aim correctly, but not take so long that I lose interest from the victors. I hit the bull's–eye, although nearer the edge.

The victors' faces are expectedly unreadable.

It is time to showcase my greatest skill: the sword. I choose a balanced, somewhat light, and slightly curved blade. I whirl on my heel and instantly start destroying a dummy, ducking and dodging imaginary strikes, hay pouring onto the floor.

I turn, flipping sweat from the tips of my hair.

They nod and I slip from the room. I'm mediocre with the other weapons at best. Better to keep the victors guessing, wondering why I don't touch them, unsure of how good I am, than to show them. Strategy. There's a word I love.

I wait patiently against the marble wall, watching those leaving the gym confident to crushed. They huddle and make bets. I meet Magni's nervous eyes. He's next.

...

Magni has to shake me from my thoughts after he comes out. "Just have to decide," he whispers, and I nod slightly. No matter what, I will not do to Mystic what Peridot did to me.

Finally, the victors come out. They talk a little—some sort of intro—and then get to the point. I remain relaxed. Mystic, on the other hand, is going to explode.

"All right. Now let's get one thing straight," Wonder—the male mentor—says, pinching his temple between his thumb and forefinger. "If you're chosen, and I see you cozying up to a girl from I–don't–care–what–district, I will slap you so hard you'll see triplicate. Are we clear?"

Well, that's new. He didn't have that comment last year.

Many nod stiffly.

I catch Magni's eye, and he winks.

"Good," says Wonder, satisfied. "Anyone who doesn't feel comfortable with the new standard, feel free to leave. The doors are over there." He gestures to them.

Some of the younger boys shift nervously, but nobody goes anywhere.

"Before the actual reaping starts, if you don't mind!" Mylar—the other male—snaps.

"Yeah, hold on, hold on, old man," Wonder says jokingly. He takes a deep, steadying breath. "All right then. I am honored to present to you the District One male tribute of the Thirty–eighth annual Hunger Games—Chrome Stevens, please step forward."

I make my way to the podium. I shake Wonder's hand, beginning to restore the honor that was ripped from my family.

"Congratulations, Chrome," Wonder says.

A hint of a smirk crosses my face. "Thank you…sir," I respond with mock–politeness.

Wonder laughs and leads me out.

...

I wake up to someone prodding my shoulder. My eyes crack open. "Stop it, Mystic," I grumble for the millionth time.

Mystic runs from the room. I groan, sitting up. Can't he wait until after the Games?

I enjoy my breakfast, taking my time while the rest of the family rushes around. People part, giving us space as we walk. This time, they're envious and in awe.

Mystic and I sign in, separating from our parents.

Soon, that ridiculous escort is on stage.

"Ladies first," Faustina giggles, then selects some Inclusion girl. Minte Hawbek volunteers.

It's my turn. "Glow Beech!"

I see Glow, a skinny twelve–year–old, standing with a clump of babies. Both he and Faustina expect a volunteer, and I decide to wait with them.

Sweat breaks out on Glow's pasty forehead, and he begins to walk toward the stage. He wipes his palms on his collared white shirt. His eyes dart around.

Effortlessly, I call out, "I volunteer as tribute!"

Faustina whirls, a smile spreading across her grass–green face, and Glow breathes out heavily, running to his mother. I slip from the crowd and stride easily toward the stage.

...

I enter the train. It's a luxurious sight. Thick, plush carpeting, platinum and gold everything…it looks like what we make for the Capitol, the things we can never keep.

We start to move, and I sit by myself.

Wonder sits with me, though I don't acknowledge him.

"So, Chrome, how does it feel knowing that you are mere weeks away from winning the Thirty–Eighth Hunger Games?" I glance up, raising one eyebrow. "What—you don't think that's going to happen? Because if it isn't, we'd better stop the train and ask them to redo the reaping."

I roll my eyes, staring out the window. "Obviously."

"Obviously what? Obviously it isn't?" (I shake my head, wanting him to stop.) "I suppose we didn't pick you because you're a bundle of excitement...you're probably not one of those who are in it for the sport. Was it parental expectations? Or did you want to follow in your brother's footsteps?"

At that, my hands' incessant tapping halts. Nobody talks about Peridot and expects me to respond.

"For crying out loud, say _something_." (I stare at my hands.) "All right, I understand if you don't want to talk about him. I'm sorry. You choose the topic." (I stare out the window again.) "...Well?"

"What?" I ask.

"I don't understand what's going on with you. If you don't want to talk, say so. But I will not be ignored. Am I clear?"

I shrug. "I prefer not to talk."

"You'll have to get over that in interview prep. For right now, thank you."

Wonder leaves to another compartment. I lean back and shut my eyes. I've had enough of people.

But if I want to win, I'll never be truly alone again.


	3. District 2 Reaping

**Aelia Tiberius****, 16 ~ District 2 Female**

**Bookwormboy134**

_..._

_"The best things come in small packages."_

___—_Origin Unknown

...

My steel mace cuts through a dummy like butter, the thud and whistle of its swing echoing. The dummy's head is still attached by a few inches (much to my annoyance).

Julius, a mace trainer, nods his approval. "Next time you swing, lean more on your right hand" —my strongest— "and aim towards the heart or stomach for a fatal hit."

"Really," I say coolly. "So are you saying being bludgeoned in the face is not a fatal hit at all?"

"Well, it _is_," Julius replies, embarrassed. "But it's still important to aim for those highlighted areas; that's what the Board has outlined."

I straighten my dark blue top—so that the neckline isn't lopsided—and the waistband of my sweatpants. Everyone wears the same gear; the only difference is that the trainers have a gold laurel badge.

"Well, you can tell your Board to shove their highlights up their ass!"

"Now, now, Aelia—that isn't very nice, is it?"

"Well, I'm not known for being Little Miss Kind, am I?" I stare at him innocently.

"Of course you aren't." He smiles a little. "I just thought you might this one time." I place the mace on the rack and turn toward Julius, glaring, hands on my hips. He smirks. "Aren't you going to practice on any other stations today? You're volunteering after all, aren't you?"

"No," I say, pretending to smile. "I just came here so you can be blessed with seeing my pretty face."

"You're truly something, Aelia," Julius says. "Good luck, kid. Make our district proud."

"I will. And thanks for all the help; you're not too bad," I reply, walking toward the agility station.

...

I practise climbing and gymnastics, using my small size to my advantage in flips. On the Gauntlet, I pass the trainers who are supposed to attack me, and get to the end. Most of our female victors have used brute strength to win—like my mentor Lexibeth Rhode, who mutilated her victims before killing them with a sword. That won't be me; I prefer stealth.

The bell for seven–thirty rings throughout the hall. I bolt through the academy's double glass doors, training bag slung over my back. The bright sun causes me to shield my eyes. The square is fast filling with people from all over the district.

I ignore them and run home. Its brass gates enter my vision; I slide past them with ease, into the house, rushing up to my room.

After taking a shower and washing my tired face, I notice Mother has laid my reaping clothes on the bed: a ruffled gold top, a black skirt with silver lining, silver tights, and silver flats. The outfit isn't bad—not revealing. Quite modest. The colors each other well.

I decide to leave my face bare of makeup (I want to look natural), and my hair in its pixie-cut state. As I put silver studs in my ears, my mind travels to why I am volunteering.

...

_Last night—_

Mother and Father are at my side. Father looks on edge due to his clubfoot; he is often the end of cruel jokes, and hardly likes to go to public functions.

"Are you sure you don't want to stand nearer to your friends?" he asks. "You wouldn't want everyone to think you're weak by staying with your old folks."

"I'm fine," I reply, giving him a small hug. "You guys need me right now, and anyone knows I can beat them any time."

The Career Training Board chairman's grand ballroom is packed with important people like the district mayor, head trainers, men in charge of the masonry works…and the Thirty–eighth Games' volunteers, though their identities are still a mystery right at that moment.

My brothers and I are on opposite sides of the ballroom. They refused to offer their names for volunteering when it was their turn—Maximus was in love with someone and didn't want to lose them, while Brutus (contrary to his name) is not violent at all and would never kill—and as such are on bad terms with our parents, who will acknowledge their presence but won't talk to them.

Because of their failure, all the pressure has been placed on me; before, I thought it wasn't fair, but I realise it's helped me to find my potential.

Everything falls silent after a hush from one of the main members of the Board—a woman in a burgundy dress whose manicured hands poise above two glass balls with names in them. She grabs two slips from each, and shows them to the Board with her back to the large gathering.

The Careers stare, concentrating and hoping.

Last year, my name wasn't picked, and I remember being crushed and crying a lot.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have chosen two great citizens to gift with the honour of volunteering for our district and participating in the Games," the woman announces. "Our female tribute is Aelia Tiberius, and our male tribute is Caius Lorun. In the unlikely case that one is unable to volunteer due to either injury, sickness, or becoming a reaping winner, our backup volunteers are Cerisse Augustus and Haphaestus Minopolis—"

My face lights up, and I'm screaming in happiness. My ecstatic parents surround me. I guess that their dreams and mine have finally come true.

...

We have to be in the square by nine. The grandfather clock tolls eight forty–five.

I grab Father's cane, and we hurry to the car.

"Aelia, you're driving this time," Father says, holding the keys toward me. I buckle myself in.

I floor the accelerator, driving past my brothers' masonry shop. (Like all the other shops, it's closed today.) I stick out my tongue at other motorists and turn on the radio to listen to some Capitol pop songs, to my parents' distaste.

The square looms in front of us.

"Remind me to never enter a car with you again," Mother exclaims. "Are you sure you were under the speed limit?"

"They have a speed limit now? Oops," I reply innocently.

Mother and Father stare at me awkwardly, as if both internally debating what to do.

"Save the soppy goodbye," I tell them. "I can't deal with any of that right now. I'll see you later."

I wait in the check–in line to get my finger pricked. It doesn't hurt; I'm used to it. (I cried when I was twelve, though.)

I take my place in the Sixteen–Year–Old section, and notice Diana in the Seventeens—wearing a short, tight dress and ridiculously high heels. We met in the academy when I was younger. She's horribly vain and stuck–up, hopeless with any type of weapon that requires skill. She looks so funny I can't stop laughing.

I think she heard me; she sends a death glare.

The reaping ceremony starts. Mayor Blackwell reads the Treaty of the Treason, which everyone has heard before. Then the list of victors; our district has the most, so it takes some time, of course.

Everyone is proud of this—_we _have the most, not District 1 or District 4.

Our escort Alla Vret bounces onto the stage, wearing some really stupid seashell bikini dress with clumps of green seaweed. Her skin is scaly as always. Last year she was a fishbowl—who would wear a fishbowl in a masonry district? She looks like some kind of District 4 muttation.

She talks in her annoying squeaky voice about how happy she is to be here, puts her blue hand into the girls' ball, and picks a name—I don't even notice whose.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I push past girls and run toward the stage, reaching it quite fast.

"Hello, dear, you're very willing to join the Games." Alla's voice blares over the speakers. "What's your name?"

"Aelia Tiberius!"

The crowd goes wild.

I'm happy that they like me. Sometimes if you look weak while volunteering, no one likes you at all, and you won't get sponsors.

"Now for the males!" Alla says. "Martinus Blackwell!"

The crowd is silent. This is the Mayor's twelve–year–old son. Everyone on the stage turns toward the Mayor, whose face is white with shock.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Caius's messy red hair is a beacon for the cameras zooming in on his handsome face.

"Caius Lorun, your future victor!" he shouts, walking toward the stage.

The crowd hoots and screams. Caius is now a hero, to district locals and Capitol sponsors; he saved the Mayor's only son from certain death. I find that slightly annoying, because it makes him even more memorable than he was to begin with.

Our previous male—Dominic Parraldi—was just as cocky, and look what happened to him: another dead tribute.

The crowd starts to shout our names in unison:

"_Aelia! Caius! Aelia! Caius!_"

I ignore the crowd and stare at him; I'm sure I've seen him before, but I can't place my finger on it. To be honest, he seems kind of rude and arrogant, relishing their attention.

...

"I think your mother and I can safely say we've never been prouder," Father says, as Mother smiles. "And can't wait until you come back."

"Can't you see this is wrong?" Maximus shouts. "She's only sixteen! She hasn't experienced life, but you want to let her be killed. This is sick!"

"Stay out of this," Mother says. "There's no going back now for her, and she is going to win."

"Listen, Short Stuff," Brutus whispers, coming over and patting my head lightly. "We don't want a dead sister, okay?"

"You're forcing her to do this," Maximus continues. "She's had two boyfriends and been kissed once. You could have at least waited until she was eighteen."

"You both need to leave now," Mother says, her face flushing with anger. "You're being extremely negative towards her, and only making her feel bad. So leave!"

"We love you, Aelia," Maximus says sadly. "Just keep safe. We know you can make it, but we wanted it to be your choice, not theirs."

I desperately want them to come back—to hug them, and tell them I love them.

But I can't. It's too late.

The mood of the luxurious room is sour and depressed.

"Don't forget—we love you so much, and only want what's best for you," Father says, cupping my head in his hands.

Peacekeepers escort my parents out quietly.

A few minutes later, the heavy curtain is moved aside, and in walks Julius.

"Hey, kid, what's shakin'?" He laughs.

"What's 'shakin'' right now is the foundations of my family," I whisper, trying not to cry.

"Hey! What happened to Little Miss Feisty who would bludgeon you to death if you called her a midget?" Julius says, patting me on the arm.

"She's here. Just hiding. Julius, I'm scared—what happens if I don't make it?"

The truth of death settling in.

"I promise if you keep up your little temper and find a mace, you'll be invincible, sweetheart. Nothing will touch you. Stay strong for me, and never give up."

...

"Time's up; no more visitors," a Peacekeeper says, dragging Julius away by the arm.

I'm told to go on the train.

I wait in the main compartment, a little nervous.

Alla bursts in with Caius behind her, singing one of those pop songs. "_Kabuki pink car, kabuki pink car, oh what a super–__fast car_!" she squeaks without any kind of tune.

"Now, dears, I have so much to show you in such a small amount of time. An escort's life is never a fun one. Come on." She beckons us to the media room.

The television comes to life in a beautiful combination of colours. The Capitol seal appears on screen, and the reaping recaps start.

District 1 look like average Careers.

The girl has some really wild hair, though; everyone knows having long hair in the Games is kind of dangerous. The commentators are ecstatic—apparently Mint (or whatever her name is) is the offspring of a victor, and a strong contender.

Her district partner Chrome looks really relaxed when he comes to the stage. It's kind of unnerving to watch him; the quiet ones are the biggest threat.

Mint is going to be incredibly arrogant. What's the point of volunteering if your father already won? It isn't for the money—is it for pride, to show everyone that your family is strong?

"From District Two we have two volunteers, which is not abnormal. The female tribute—Aelia Tiberius—is easily the smallest so far. The male—Caius Lorun—is a big hit in the Capitol, along with his striking red hair. He volunteered for the son of District Two's Mayor, and looks physically strong; he'll probably wield a sword. The contrast between the partners is quite clear; they have already been nicknamed the Dwarf and the Giant."

District 3 is the same, usual skinny tributes.

District 4's Maria and Ford are golden–tanned, with a slight advantage: last year, their district won the Games. The girl doesn't have a lot of muscle, but still looks strong. The boy is younger, and not very muscular either.

The kids in District 5 look weak. I don't understand why someone who has a better chance doesn't volunteer for them instead. But that's the outer districts for you.

I zone out after District 6.

...

Suddenly, I hear cheering. We have arrived at the Capitol. Through the window, a vibrant mix of colors from neon pink to sombre black can be seen.

The Capitolites are screaming our names.

"_Aelia! Caius!_"

"Come on, darlings," Alla chirps, the coral on her face looking like a diseased rash. "We're on a strict schedule here, no time to be gawking!"

The train doors slide open, and we are escorted past the screaming crowd into the Remake Centre. There are no other tributes here yet.

Alla furiously taps some kind of tablet with her green talons. "Your prep teams will be here in about ten minutes. I'm going to go organize our living arrangements and find your mentors." She disappears into a silver elevator.

Caius looks quite bored, staring at a bowl of fruit on the nearest table.

I lay my head on a soft pillow on the sofa; my eyes soon get heavy and close.

* * *

**Caius Lorun, 18 ~ District 2 Male**

**XSellSwordX**

...

_"Each alter had a common goal, namely my survival. They didn't all realize that, though, and so were at odds with each other much of the time. So I continued to be fragmented and divided."_

_—Carolyn Bramhall_

...

It's dark.

Why is it dark? What happened? Where am I?

I think I'm alone.

…

It's so quiet.

Like me.

I hate noises; it means something bad is gonna' happen. It always does. Father is always screaming at me, or stomping around loudly.

I hate noises. I hate screaming.

…

I think I've been here many times.

…

It's really dark, and I can't see anything.

Of course I can't see anything.

But it's still nice.

…

I think many people are scared of the dark.

Not me. I like the dark.

I don't like the light; the light is bad. Father is bad. I don't like Father—he should leave.

Life would be better.

…

Won't the People in White notice anything?

Yeah, they will. They'll know Father left; they'll take me away.

Father is different. He can do anything, and they won't notice 'cause he's a grownup. It's not fair!

…

I don't like it.

I don't like being yelled at, and called names, and beaten up; it hurts.

Why can't it happen to someone else?

It's not fair.

…

I think someone is watching me. But no one's here.

It's a bit scary…

But that's silly; there's **no one **here.

…

But if someone_ is _watching me, I'm not scared. I feel…safe; I think that person is nice.

I know! I'll just pretend it's my new friend!

…

I like it here.

No one is yelling at me, or trying to hurt me.

It's quiet and dark.

I think I'll stay here.

…

Forever and ever and ever.

...

Marcel

The first thing that registers when I wake is that I've survived another of _that man's_ beatings. I don't know whether to be happy I'm alive, or disappointed that he hasn't killed me yet.

The second thing is the amount of pain I'm in when I wriggle my toes and move my fingers experimentally. My head is pounding. My ribs throb. Moving my arms hurts. Ow…

Well, it's tolerable. Of course, what I consider to be tolerable is agonizing to others.

After I make sure nothing is broken, I open my eyes. Judging from the sunlight filtering through the curtains directly opposite me, it's morning.

My eyes flick downward; I'm on the stone–cold gray kitchen floor of the house that Caius shares with his father. Even if lying on the floor covered in bruises is uncomfortable, there are worse places to wake up…like in his father's creaky bed. No, don't think about that. I shake my head, and am rewarded by a splitting headache.

Caius's father has something against his own son. I don't think Caius _did anything_, he can't have; he was four when he inadvertently created me.

I have my suspicions: sometimes Caius's father rants about a "cheating bitch", and how she left him after giving birth. Then he rants about Caius's appearance. He dislikes being reminded of the "cheating bitch"—her messy fire–red hair, amber eyes, oval–shaped face, and lithe, thin body. Caius inherited his mother's looks, so his father beats me for something Caius can't do anything about.

I wish I could do something, but I can't—not without Caius's permission. Asking won't do any good. I can't communicate with him, and he's been 'hibernating' since he was seven. When in doubt, go through the motions.

I'm not too sure on Caius's past, but after much deduction and thinking, this is the story that makes the most sense:

To survive, Caius did the only logical thing—escape. He couldn't physically escape, so his mind escaped; he created a separate personality. I went along with it. When he needed me, he retreated into his mind and I took over. When my job was done, I left and wandered aimlessly while he reappeared and continued with his life.

A few years down the road, something happened and Caius decided to retreat into his mind for good. I only know and remember the events I appear for. Not much changed. I still appeared for the beatings, and went back when they were over. The only difference was Caius 'hibernating'.

I know for sure that Caius created other personalities, since someone is taking over when he and I are not. I just don't know who they are, how many there are, and what they do. It doesn't matter, though; my comfort and feelings don't matter. I have a job.

That being said, I start to get up, easily ignoring my stomach when it decides to complain by sending pain signals. Still, it may be better to take it a little slower.

With my legs bent in a kneeling position, one hand on the floor and the other hugging the wall, I pull myself upright, pausing whenever my body screams. I manage to limp to the bathroom.

The bathroom is where the mirror, bandages, and—more importantly—painkillers are located. It's maybe eight steps from the kitchen; Caius's house isn't big.

The toilet is also in easy access, so if I need to vomit blood, that's where it goes instead of the floor. I don't think I'll need it this time; my ribs hurt, but don't feel broken, and the pain is starting to subside. I probably only received a few bruises.

I have to check to make sure, though.

As I stand in front of the mirror, my eyes shift over his hair. I know I won't find anything there, but it's the reddest thing I've ever seen in my whole entire existence…except maybe blood.

The next thing that catches my attention is the fist–sized bruise on Caius's left cheek. Ah, so that was how he knocked me out: a fist to the face.

I remove Caius's dull light blue shirt to reveal pale skin and a slightly muscular chest. There are assorted yellow, green, and blue bruises on random parts, all in various stages of healing.

I ignore those, focusing on the two medium–sized purple ones—directly over Caius's left ribcage, and on his abdomen. Not bad. Could be worse.

A third bruise is found below his right shoulder, and a fourth in the middle of his spine. After closely examining his legs, I only find one on his right thigh.

Last night was one of the good nights.

Still, a painkiller would be helpful; I don't think whichever personality that takes over next will be able to endure it. I take the bottle and pop three pills, swallowing them dry. This monotonous routine got old a while ago, and I wonder if there's anything more to life. I'm pretty sure there is, but not for me.

I hear someone thumping around upstairs as I walk out of the bathroom. It has to be him, because there's no one else in the house.

_Crap! _He isn't normally active at this time! He's usually quiet for hours after drinking those brown glass bottles with weirdly elongated necks. (I think he calls it 'beer'.)

With my instincts screaming at me to get out of there fast, I do something I've never done before: I grab the handle of the front door and run out of the house. At first I feel relieved, but that disappears as I look at the world half in awe, half in bewilderment.

Houses sit methodically in rows. All of them look the same, but have features (color, number of windows) that make them different. A long black path (a street, I think) stretches to who–knows–where. A group of four people, probably a family, is walking down that path. Above me, the sky is the brightest shade of blue.

So this is the outside world…wow. It is amazing.

I wonder how big the world is. Well, there's only one way to find out.

It's almost as if something is pulling me away from Caius's house to that path. It's obviously a bad idea; doing anything that goes against routine is a bad idea.

But this is the first time I've been outside, and it _will_ be my last. I'll be a little adventurous, just this once.

I completely ignore the family and head in the opposite direction they're going in. I don't want to deal with them if they decide to talk to me, or something; I won't know how to answer any questions. And years of beatings have made me wary of anything that can move.

I carefully avoid everyone. For some reason, there are a lot of people on the street, all heading in the same direction as the family I saw earlier. Thankfully no one says anything; they're too busy chatting animatedly about a 'reaping', 'games', and 'volunteer'—a group game, maybe?

"Hey, you!"

I ignore the loud voice and continue walking. I'm pretty sure whomever called out isn't addressing me.

When someone grabs Caius's shoulder firmly, I flinch and instinctively jump back. In front of me are two men dressed in identical white clothes, weird white helmets, and boots. Their heavy, painful–looking sticks catch and hold my attention. Not good. Those look like they can cause some real damage.

What do they want with me?

Apprehension must be on Caius's face, because the taller of the two smiles in an attempt to put me at ease. If anything, it makes me more nervous. "You're going the wrong way, kid—the reaping is that way." He points in the direction all the people have been heading.

The what? I've never heard of this 'reaping' before, so I keep quiet.

The men look at each other, and then at me, clearly expecting me to do something. But what?

"C'mon, kid, aren't you a little too old to be playing dumb?" Tall Guy says in what can be considered a joking tone.

I'm a twenty–seven–year–old in an eighteen–year–old body. But I'm sure that's the wrong answer.

Shorter, Intimidating Guy isn't as nice. He almost reminds me of Caius's father, even though he looks nothing like him. "The reaping starts in seven minutes; get moving." He attempts to push me, but I smack his outstretched arms away and crouch defensively. Not–Caius's–Father tenses, and his hand casually brushes the large stick by his hip.

Tall Guy tries to diffuse the tension. "You won't want to be late for the most important day in District Two history. Come on, the reaping is about to start."

"What is…the…reaping?" I ask slowly.

They throw another look at each other.

"Haha, very funny," Not–Caius's–Father says sarcastically. He places a hand on Caius's shoulder, and starts to steer me in the right direction. When I try to shrug him off, he merely pushes me while Tall Guy trails behind, torn between helping his friend and telling him to be nice.

"Stop," I mumble.

"Then get going."

Get going where, and what is going on? My mental questions remain unanswered as he shoves me again, and an infestation of people looms in my sight. Wha—?

I stand there, eyes a little too wide and mouth slightly open. How can the world hold so many people?

My heart beats faster. My breathing becomes rapid. I start to back away as thoughts swirl so fast that I can barely make them out.

Meanwhile, the crowd laughs happily; it's so loud it's all I can hear. A feeling of lightheadedness starts up slow, but grows stronger when the laughter aims itself at me.

There are so many people, there're so many people, there'resomanypeople—

...

Diana

It starts out dark. The only noise is that baby Calisto's ear–splitting screaming; I hear it whenever Marcel takes over.

After that is the instinct Calisto and I have that we're needed "out there". One feels it stronger than the other. Sometimes I do, other times he does. This time, the "needy feeling" is stronger in Calisto; it's there for me if I concentrate.

We know what today is: the reaping.

Calisto's smart. He just thinks he's smarter than he is. He has somehow found out my plan to volunteer. Let's just say I wish my eardrums blew out a long time ago. He decided that under no circumstances was I to volunteer, because "it's against the rules".

Well, if he thinks I'm gonna' listen to him, he's dead wrong. I'm sixteen and he's fifteen; I refuse to be bossed around by a baby. That's why I'm racing ahead, trying to prevent Calisto from taking over. He will completely ruin my plans and chance of freedom. I charge forward, Calisto hot on my heels.

. . .Not anymore.

The dark has turned to light, and Calisto's screaming turns into a burst of chatter from random civilians around me.

Someone pushes me, causing my irritation levels to skyrocket. I do not like being ordered and pushed around; it reminds me of Calisto and his restrictions. I'm a free, independent person by nature.

"Get going, boy," Insignificant Person growls. "The reaping is about to start." I turn to see who dared push me.

Oh. A dwarf in a Peacekeeper costume. Hmph. I've seen tree stumps taller than him.

"Darling, can't you see I'm planning my entrance?" I shoot back, and saunter into the crowd with my head held high. I wouldn't normally do that, but the dwarf irritated me.

It doesn't take long to find the check–in line. I must be one of the stragglers, since the line has shortened dramatically. The Peacekeeper doing the finger pricking gives me a 'are you serious' look when it's my turn.

What's he looking at?

I look down.

…Thanks a lot, Marcel.

Apparently, Marcel has forgotten the reaping dress code (wear something formal and nice). I am wearing an old, trashy blue shirt and ill–fitting cargo pants. I must look like a bum next to everyone else, and I can't run back and change. Ugh. Great.

"See something you like?" I ask in a slightly suggestive tone when the Peacekeeper keeps staring. He looks away, almost embarrassed. He thinks I'm gay; I'm pretty sure everyone in this district thinks Caius is gay.

I remember Calisto complaining about how some (probably) homosexual guys hit on him. He claims that they claimed that he (I) hit on them some time ago. I _am_ a female posing as a male, but that doesn't mean I have to act like a guy. One thing that's great about being female in a male body is that I get to go to the men's bathroom and check the guys out. Yeah, it's perverted and creepy, but I can't exactly go to the women's restroom.

I slide into the eighteen–year–olds' section. Most are too busy chatting up a storm or waiting for the reaping to start to notice my poorly–dressed state. Thank God.

Theeeen…it starts, when Mayor Blackwell reads the Treaty of Treason. Blah, blah, blah, rebellion. Yak, yak, war. Yada ya, rebels lost. Whoopdedoo, Hunger Games.

After that is the list of victors. It's a long list. But it shows that our district is strong and more likely to win than any other, even 1 and 4.

After _that_, a scaly sea mutt covered in seaweed and wearing a bikini somehow escapes its confines and bounces to the stage. Oh wait, that's the escort. What's its name? El Fret? No, that's not it. It sounds something like that, though. Whatever, I'll just call it Alfred.

Alfred talks in a glass–shattering voice. Blah, blah, blah, happy. (Yeah, I bet; _I_ would be happy if I was free and not in a cage.) Yakkity yak, honor. (Mutts have a sense of honor?) Geez, it's more annoying than Calisto. At least he can be used as white noise.

Alfred puts a blue claw in the glass ball containing all the girls' names, and pulls out a name. I don't get to hear what it is; I'm too busy trying to make sure I still have my hearing.

"I volunteer as tribute!" A midget runs to the stage like her life depends on it.

"Hello, dear, you're very willing to join the Games." I have a sudden vision of a sea monster grinning at its victim before devouring it. "What's your name?"

"Aelia Tiberius!"

Her. I don't know her personally, but she was there with her parents when the board announced this year's District 2 tributes. Hmm. I think I'll call her Tiny—it suits her.

"Now for the males!" Alfred says cheerfully. She pulls out another slip. "Martinus Blackwell!"

The crowd that was cheering on Tiny is silent.

The obviously unprepared boy walks shakily to the Stage of Doom (or Glory, depending on your view). Poor little Martinus. I guess being the mayor's only son didn't protect him. He's lucky he's not gonna' die.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I yell, striding proudly. "Caius Lorun, your future victor!" Geez, why did I say that? I sound like an arrogant noob.

At least the crowd loves me; they chant my name, and Tiny's real one. "_Aelia! Caius! Aelia! Caius!_"

Now this—this is the sort of attention that Caius would never want. I kinda' feel guilty for doing this without his permission, but he's been AWOL for eleven years. Everything will be fine.

Tiny and I are led away to the Justice Building, into separate rooms, leaving the cheering rabble behind. Yay, Justice Building. Goodbyes happen here.

Well, I don't need them. It's not like anyone is gonna' visit me; Caius's "father" is an asshole, and Calisto and I were careful not to make any friends. A friend equals attention equals bad. Yeah, there's a lot of attention when you're in the Hunger Games, but that's different and necessary. With a friend, you're gonna' be scrutinized for a long period of time, and they may start to care about you.

But for some reason, it still feels like something's wrong. Oh right, this is considered a social situation. I don't take over during social situations—Calisto does. My mission has been completed. We are now the District 2 male tribute.

Ha! Sucks for you, Calisto!

...

Calisto

This has got to be one big fucking joke. If I'm in the Justice Building, then she really did it.

ARGH!

Fuck Diana! Rules are there for a reason, but no, she's too good to obey them! Who cares if Caius won't know what happened? Just because he hasn't taken over in nearly eleven years doesn't mean he will remain dormant when Diana goes off gallivanting into the sunset and bringing oh–so–much honor and glory to the district. (Sarcasm intended.)

She is such a stubborn ass! Of course she plans on going to the Capitol, enticing the citizens (ha!), outliving twenty–three other kiddies, and coming home. Of course! Everything is gonna' go exactly as planned, right? WRONG! There are so many things that can go wrong! There are countless variables and who knows what! You can't expect anything to go right in the Hunger Games!

What if the Capitol doesn't like her? What if her score isn't high enough? What if her interview goes wrong? What if her mentor is an incompetent douche? What if her district partner stabs her in her sleep? What if someone kills her in the Bloodbath? What if the Gamemakers wipe us all out with a well-placed hurricane? What if there isn't enough food? What if she can't find water? What if her preferred weapon isn't in the Cornucopia? What if Caius wakes up when all this is happening?!

"Hey, kid, I know you're excited and all, but you don't have to wear a hole in the carpet."

I shoot a glare. Who's the imbecile who dares to interrupt my thoughts?

The impertinent nitwit turns out to be the Peacekeeper at the door. He's looking at me like I'm gonna' bite his head off because I'm giving him The Death Glare of Death Glares. Not like he didn't deserve it.

"I'm just trying to think," I spit out as nicely as I can.

"Okay…"

At least the dunce has a tenth of a brain, and leaves me to burn more holes with my pacing. Why? Because I hate carpets, so I love burning holes in them. Now where was I? Oh right, ranting.

Ugh, Diana is such an idiot! Even a four–year–old knows that participating in the Games is begging for an early death. But everyone in my district thinks it's an honor to be a tribute. Yep, I'm surrounded by morons.

I'm going to have to clean up after her again. She's always doing that! Getting us into mess after mess, and I have to fix everything, but is she grateful? Noooo, she just creates another mess.

I sigh. All right, focus, Calisto. How am I gonna' get us out of this one?

Let's start with the odds. . . (I walk to the left side of the room.) What are the potentially fatal variables? (I go to the right side of the room.)

There are the competitors. (No freaking duh.) Exposure to the elements—another given. Traps. (I pace back to the left.) Mutts. (God, I hate them.) Infection. (Infected cuts make the most stunning colors, haha.) Starvation, dehydration. Whoopee. (Right.) Blood loss—what fun. And poison. I guess those are the major ones. So what are the minor ones? (Left.) Ah, forget it.

I notice how the Peacekeeper's eyes have been on me the whole time I was having my cheerful thoughts. Creep. I don't have time to yell at him, though; I'm too busy making calculations.

Okay, assuming that all of the tributes have the same weight, height, strength, speed, skill, luck, weapons, and determination. Also assuming that the arena has no hiding places, and is a completely flat, boring plain, and sponsors don't exist, and the Gamemakers do not interfere. The tributes immediately attack each other, and the battle takes place in one day. Diana has a 4.17 percent chance of winning.

I stop pacing. Wow, that is sad. Then again, that's only if all the requirements are fulfilled, and honestly, there's a one–in–three–billionth chance everything will play out like that. In other words: it's impossible. I have to do a lot of intricate calculations to figure out Diana's true chances of winning. I sigh, and start pacing again.

So starting with the basic percent chance of winning, which is 4.17, Diana is a Career, but so are five other tributes. There are eighteen non–Careers. Multiplying 1/6 by 1/18 gives '1 over 108'. Multiply by 1,800 to get '16 and 2/3'. Then 100 minus 16 and 2/3. Take that, and divide the answer by six, and we get 13.9 percent. Rounded, of course.

Yes, I calculated that in my head.

Diana has a 13.9 percent chance of winning because she's a Career, but I still have to evaluate the other factors. If she manages to win the Capitol over, her chances may increase a maximum of five percent. Her mentor needs to be on her side, though; if that happens, then—

For the second time, a certain someone interrupts my thoughts. "Pardon me, kid" — Yep, it's the idiot Peacekeeper — "but I have to say, you're one heck of an actor. You really had us fooled this morning."

"Oh, thank you," I reply carelessly, until what the second part of what he said hits me. "Wait, what?! This morning?"

He looks at me with a confused expression. "A few minutes before the reaping, my partner and I found you walking _away_ from the square," he says with remarkable patience. I can't sense any snide or patronizing undertone, so he's either legitimate or very good at hiding malice. "We thought you were lost or something, so we figured we should point you in the right direction, but you acted like you didn't know what was going on." He sounds genuinely concerned.

I blink, and stare at him. He stares back expectantly.

"O. . .kay. . ."

He was probably expecting me to go, "Oh yeah! I remember that!" because his face falls a little.

"You don't remember?"

I sigh irritably; I just wanna' go back to my freaking thoughts! "Look here, buddy—I'm pretty sure I would remember an event like that if it ever happened to me. However, I clearly do not recall anything like that; therefore, you must be mistaking me for someone else."

He and his friend may have encountered a very confused Marcel, or—heaven forbid—Caius.

"No, I'm not," the Peacekeeper says. "I wouldn't mistake you for anyone else, especially not with hair that red."

. . .

If such a thing like God, fate, karma, or whatever people used to believe in does exist, I swear they hate me. Why couldn't Caius have brown hair, or something?! Did he _have_ to have red hair? Seriously—only two percent of the human population has natural red hair, and Caius just _has_ to be one of that two percent. ARGH!

"Kid? You okay?" the Peacekeeper asks tentatively.

I grunt. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Yeah, yeah, he's probably trying to be nice by starting a conversation, but I _really_ don't wanna' talk.

"You sure get distracted easily."

"I know."

He switches subjects. "Are any of your family members coming to visit?"

"Doubt it."

"What about friends?"

"Don't have any."

"Girlfriend?"

He's starting to get on my nerves. "No."

"…Oh."

Cue the awkward silence.

"You know" — of course he can't keep his mouth shut — "out of all these years, I've never had a tribute that didn't have a single visitor."

"Well, now you have," I retort not–so–nicely.

Do I feel bad snapping at him? No, I don't.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you," I sincerely apologize after a brief period of awkward silence. Okay, maybe I do feel a little terrible. He didn't do anything wrong.

He smiles at me in the 'I forgive you' way, and it makes me uncomfortable. _No one_ has ever been nice to me; I'm not used to it, and I don't like it.

"I take it that you're not a people person?"

"Not at all. And well, I'm also trying to strategize, and talking isn't really helping me."

"Okay then. . .I'll let you, er, strategize in peace." He says 'strategize' like it's in a foreign language. "But we have to get you on that train in five minutes."

"Fine."

Geez, the people here are dimwits. All they care about is looking good, looking strong, looking tough. No appreciation for brains.

So we need to be on good terms with the mentor in order to get the best advice possible. Not to mention he'll be the one giving us sponsor gifts.

Sponsors. Great. . . This is the area that I like least: buttering up people. I'm not the most sociable person, nor am I friendly or even remotely nice. I can say the same for Diana. It's gonna' be harder on me, though. Guess who has to wave until his arms drop off? Smile until he sprains his facial muscles? Blow kisses into the crowd, coo, and act absolutely ridiculous? I'll be completely out of my element.

All she has to do is show off her skill with weapons and fighting, and it's all good! I'm the one who has to act the complete opposite of who I normally am. She started this mess, but I have to work extra hard to get us out. Fair, right?

Okay, okay, stop wasting time! I'll worry about being charismatic later; maybe the mentor can help me with that. I'll focus on Diana's part for now. She'll be in the Games without my help (or as she would call it, interference), so she needs to be as prepared as she possibly can.

Food and water aren't too big of an issue. If she needs meat, she can use her bow and arrow. There must be at least one body of water; otherwise, the tributes will be dropping left and right from thirst. If there's one thing I know, it's that the Gamemakers can't let them die that easily—bad entertainment.

Alright then.

If I manage to get a good relationship with the mentor, her odds will increase another three to four percent. Then there are the factors that I still have yet to determine, such as the tributes, her training score, and I suppose the interview to some extent—

"Kid." I nearly throw a fit right then and there. "It's time to leave." Oh. I'm glad that I didn't throw a fit.

The Peacekeeper escorts me to the train, and for once doesn't attempt to start a conversation. I'm very grateful for that. Walking to the train, for me, is equivalent to walking to the gallows.

"You have a plan, right?" he asks when I'm about to get on. Alla Vret, the ocean–themed escort (WTF?), is at the door, waiting.

"I hope so."

He smiles in a comforting way. "Make us proud, Caius."

"My name is Calisto." I quickly board before he can say anything.

I don't know why I did that. I guess maybe it's because he's the only one who was nice to me, even though I gave him grief.

"Your name is not Calisto, dear." Oh great, the pathetic excuse for a person.

"It is, and I'd rather not talk about it," I reply shortly. I would have spewed insults if I didn't have to practice being nice.

She looks surprised, and then breaks into a smile so dazzling it puts blinding jewels to shame. "Is that so? Well then, come on, Calisto, dear—it's time to go to the Capitol! Aren't you excited?" she squeals.

My eardrums. . . .and to answer your question, no, I am _not_ excited.

I nod like an idiot.

I am ushered into the main compartment, where my district partner (dunno' what her name is) is waiting for me. I immediately analyze her.

She's a really tiny person; she can use her size to her advantage. However, she might not be able to use large weapons like a claymore, nor might she be significantly strong. There is a good chance that she is unable to wrestle and win against someone over one hundred and thirty pounds—

For the fourth time, my thoughts are interrupted.

"Now, dears," the bikini–wearing escort says in a sweet, sugary voice that makes me gag, "I have so much to show you in such a small amount of time." (Like what?) "An escort's life is never a fun one." (What do you mean? You take kids from their homes, and bring them to The Arena of Death. After that, you sit around and do nothing!) "Come on," she chirps.

Alla Vret motions for us to follow her, and takes us to the media room, where there is a giant television pasted in the middle of the wall. The reaping recaps start as we sit on the large sofa.

The first to come up is (wait for it) District 1; both tributes volunteered (of course). The girl, Minty (did I get that right?) waited to walk arrogantly to the stage, then got yelled at by one of the victors (who happened to be her father) due to the length of her dress. Her partner Chrome also deliberately stalled until the poor reaped boy nearly passed out in fright. How cruel. Since Minty is the daughter of a victor, it is likely she had everything handed to her on a silver platter, and will expect that even in the arena. (Great, a spoiled brat.) Her father will most likely be her mentor, and lavish her with sponsor gifts when possible. Chrome may be more tolerable, but possibly crueler. He's quiet, so he may have something up his sleeve. He'll either be a showoff or hide his talents.

District 2 is next. (Yay.) Thank God for the recaps—things could get awkward if Aelia found out that I didn't know her name, even though I'm supposed to.

District 3 has no volunteers, but that's not surprising. Nathalia walks to the stage wearing a dress way fancier than it has to be, and carrying an umbrella. (Oh wait, that's a parasol.) Her partner Bolt glares at her—whether from competitiveness or hatred, I can't tell. He looks as if he wants to kill her, but I doubt he can; he's so skinny that even _Aelia_ can fold him in half. So District 3 has a rich, stuck–up snob who won't know her left from her right, and a skinny, weak boy for tributes.

After that is District 4. (We're done with a third of the reapings.) Maria is confident (bordering on cocky) and flirtatious, if a wink to the crowd can judge her character. Ford is the tallest and most handsome Career this year. He wants to be in the Games, which means he's trained and confident that he can outlive twenty–three other tributes. He'll be loved by the Capitol women, especially with those looks. District 4 also won last year. . .

District 5 is entertaining, to say the least. The escort seems to be so afraid of the girl, Ampere, that he accidentally knocks over the ball containing the boys' names. Despite having a threatening aura in the eyes of the escort, Ampere is young. I do have to admire her for staying calm. If she manages to get great allies, she might be able to last a while. The boy, Austin, is another story. He's older, taller, and slightly muscular. . .though for some reason, his body keeps twitching uncontrollably. It would appear to be nerves or a bad habit, but I can tell that it's way out of his control. Huh, interesting.

Next is District 6, to no one's surprise. Esmeralda (very nice name) is sixteen, and Hector is fourteen. Well, _Hector_ isn't gonna' last long. It's logic; the younger tributes have a higher chance of dying. I'll be surprised if he makes it past the Bloodbath. (Actually, I'll faint in shock. Note the sarcasm.)

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Aelia has zoned out. Apparently, she doesn't want to know who she's up against—either that, or she's assumed that the rest will be weaklings. It could also be boredom. So my district partner is cocky or gets bored easily. Those aren't good traits in a human being. . .

I snap out of my musings when District 7 comes up. Andra is immediately marked off as a Bloodbath casualty; only twelve, she can barely speak when the overexcited escort shoves a microphone in her face. (Geez, calm yourself, escort.) Lukas, on the other hand, is seventeen. In a way, District 7 reminds me of District 5: small, young girl and big, tall boy.

I feel pretty bad for District 8. Their tributes, Clarily (what kind of a name is that?) and Ramie (weird name), are fourteen and twelve, and have almost no chance of coming out alive. Not to mention, 8 is in charge of producing fabric and clothes; I don't think drawing and painting will help much, even if the arena is a giant canvas.

District 9 is. . .atypical. Spelt (or is it 'Spell'?) has a normal reaping with a normal reaction, even if she does take her time getting to the stage. It's Rift who throws everyone for a loop—he volunteers.

An outer–district volunteer. I hate them, and for good reason: they don't normally match up to the Careers' strength and skill (no duh), but they sure have the arrogance. If it's not arrogance, it's stupidity. WHY WOULD YOU VOLUNTEER FOR A GAME OF DEATH WHEN YOU ARE CLEARLY GONNA' DIE?! _ARE YOU DRUNK OR SOMETHING?!_ Then again, the Careers are also stupid; even if they have higher odds than non–Careers, they still die.

At least District 10 doesn't have any volunteers; my sanity would have been seriously tested if they did. Small and young Jodi is Bloodbath material, unless those tears are an attempt to get everyone's guard down. Spencer is strong, muscular, and really good–looking. Wow, I might actually turn gay for him. (That was meant to be a joke.) He can give the Careers a run for their money. . .and so can that dunce, Rift.

District 11 has the second crybaby, thirteen–year–old Farro. (Not that I blame her—if anything, I feel sorry for her and Jodi.) Weak–looking and from a poor district, she's Bloodbath material. If not, she's gonna' die in the first few days. Trevon is just this tall kid, nothing special about him or his reaction. Overall, average for now.

At last, we have District 12. Rhiannon is nothing interesting. Oh, except for that slight chin raise when she reaches the stage. Someone's feeling bold. Most wouldn't notice something so slight, but hardly anything escapes my eyes. The male tribute, Miles, is also nothing.

Aaaaaand, we're done. Finally! Now that I know who the competition is, I just need Diana's training score and a good idea on how my interview should go, and I can finish calculating the odds that we get out of here alive. I sit back and smile with pleasure. I'd have to be blind to not notice the abnormal amount of young tributes this year. The only ones that could be extremely dangerous are the Careers (duh), Rift, Spencer, and maybe Lukas.

I have to give Diana this information. The only way she's gonna' receive it is through notes. After some time, my mentor Ace Markham hands me a pen and paper, but not before asking me what I thought of the tributes. Since I want to get this down as soon as possible, I give him the shortened version. ("Minty is a Daddy's Girl, Chrome is creepy, Aelia gets bored easily, Nathalia is rich, Bolt is thinner than a stick, Maria is a flirt, Ford is cocky. . .") I don't think he knows who 'Ampere' or 'Ramie' are; it might have been easier on him if I substituted their districts, but it's tedious to go: "District 1 female, District 1 male", so on and so forth.

I sit at a table that so happens to be conveniently there as decoration, and write the note, ignoring Aelia's curious glance and blocking her view with my body and hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing."

"Well, obviously; I have eyes." The sarcastic tone makes me wanna' throttle her. "But the Capitol won't allow us to write home."

"Who says I'm writing to home?" I retort.

"Well, who _are_ you writing to? Last words for your girlfriend?" I can literally hear the smirk.

"No, my boyfriend."

"You're gay?" She quickly regains her composure. "Well, looks are certainly deceiving."

"I'm not gay, I'm asexual," I reply sardonically. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like some peace and quiet writing this love letter."

She grumbles, but leaves me alone. It's just my luck that my district partner enjoys sticking her nose into stuff she clearly does not need to concern herself with.

I look at the paper to see that I've written two sentences:

_Diana, _

_This is Calisto. __I have information that you seriously need to know, so if you're an idiot and ignore this, you will kill us._


	4. District 3 Reaping

**Nathalia Campbell****, 17 ~ District 3 Female**

**CelticGames4**

Ahem. Here is the introduction of my beautiful life:

My name's Nathalia Campbell.

My brother Theodore (he prefers 'Theo') and I are seventeen. We are probably the best people on this earth so far—no wonder we're the most popular kids in the district; we're also the best saxophone players. (Even if we weren't, Mommy and Daddy would make sure we were.) We live in the richer neighborhood of District 3.

I wake after a good night's sleep and sweet dreams. The day hasn't even started yet, and it's already spectacular!

I put on the expensive dress that Mommy and Daddy got, grab a parasol, and sing a happy song as I skip down the stairs and twirl.

"You look like such an idiot." My brother appears at the top of the staircase.

He looks all right.

"You always dampen my spirits!" I whine.

"Isn't that why you have your umbrella?" He slides down the railing, and smacks the top of my parasol.

"It's a parasol," I inform him. "It protects my figure from harmful UV rays."

Theo laughs. "Yeah, yeah."

"Shall we make our way to pick up Francesca?"

We lock arms, and he smiles. "We shall!"

We don't have to go very far; Francesca Cooper and her brother Tanner greet us on the sidewalk. Their parents love us because we're rich and act like it. _They_ act like a couple of poor people, even spending time with the bums; it's disgusting and a shame.

"Hi, guys," Francesca says quietly.

Tanner smiles. He's a little ball of energy at ten. "Hi!" He runs ahead of us, making a point to jump over all the cracks.

Theo and I laugh together.

I smile at Francesca, and take one of her long, diligently braided pigtails. "Your hair looks very nice today."

"Thank you. Tanner did it this morning while I was solving an equation."

I cock my head. "Tanner? Like. . .him?"

I point.

Francesca nods. "I'm real proud of him."

I roll my eyes. "He needs Theo in his life—a good male influence."

I hear her almost scoff, but she nods politely.

As we pass the slums, she waves to her other best friend Mason Skillings.

I suppose now is the time to introduce you to my worst enemy: Mason Skillings. He plays the sax on an old rental from school, and he's good. . .but more of a pesky mosquito than anything else. He glares at me, and appears sympathetic toward Francesca.

Then he disappears to the square, and we arrive there soon enough.

Theo meets up with me again, and Francesca talks to her bum friends. We hug.

"Remember," Theo says, "smile pretty for the cameras—when you get picked!" We both laugh. "Yeah right!"

I love to look at the people from the Capitol. Some of them are creepy, but a lot know how to show off their wealth.

I admire my fingernails during the stupid video. I'm grinning at my beautiful thumbnail when I hear something that sends a chill up my spine:

"Nathalia Campbell!"

I look up. People have started to make a pathway.

Something's messed up here. I haven't taken one tessy–thing in my whole life; it should be some poor girl, not me!

I find Theo—he'll know how I can get out of this. He's staring intently at his shoes. It's then I remember what he said: smile pretty. So I do, even though my eyes are fixated on my brother.

I step up to my place finally, and zone out a little into a daydream. The only thing I notice about my competition is that he'll be no match for me.

Before I know it, I'm dragged into the Justice Building. I think I see tears in Theo's eyes.

...

I sit on the train, burying my head in my knees.

"Sit up, now!" Our escort Candy pats me on the back.

"NO!"

I don't ever want to see a Capitol person's ugly face again.

The sickly sweet smell of candied apples drifts into my nose, and I make a face. Luckily, she can't see my hate.

The boy from my district hasn't said a word.

I'm used to Theo and all of our friends being there for me when I cry. I never really cried unless I wanted attention, and thought he was being treated better than I was. I can't believe we're miles apart.

So this is what it feels like to cry real tears? Well, I hate it.

WHY WON'T ANYONE COMFORT ME?

I try to get myself together, and when I finally stop screaming I look out the window.

I hear Candy's voice. "Oh, Natalie!"

"It's. Nathalia," I say through gritted teeth. "Not. Natalie."

"Yes, yes, now come on!"

I squeeze the saxophone mouthpiece in my palm. "Where?"

"We're arriving in the Capitol!"

Before the reaping, I think I would have been excited to see it.

"Come on, Nathalia." One of the victors (I don't know which one) guides me. I feel sick to my stomach.

Candy squeals, "Isn't this great?"

I only have one freedom left, and I use it. "No."

"Lighten up, Natalie!"

I growl, and a victor (who I think is Bolt) squeezes my shoulder. I let out an angry breath.

* * *

...

* * *

**Bolt Huxley****, 16 ~ District 3 Male**

**Shaphire15**

I wake up, sweating with fear. Just like the year before this, and the year before that, and the year before that. The reaping has come.

I drag myself out of bed. The only part I enjoy is that I get a full day with no one around. If I get to the district fence quickly, I can draw the sunrise; I rarely get up early enough, and it would be the best reaping gift I can give my mother. She loves sunrises.

In fact, I might even see if Decius has any coloured crayons. I'm sure he'd be willing to give them to me, as he is one of the only people in this damned district who enjoys art.

I scribble a note, then get ready and head out to the square, seeing a district asleep. I soon spot Decius due to his grim Peacekeeper's outfit.

"Hey, boyo," he says as I approach.

"Hey," I reply.

"So, what do you need?"

"Have you got any coloured crayons or the like?"

"You're in luck, the Capitol sent them. Poor deluded education diplomats think you lot love to colour in your diagrams."

"I'll trade you for them."

"You can have them for free. On a day like this, everyone deserves a little joy."

I gratefully take the crayons, and sprint to my maple tree. Soon, I have scaled it and begun to sketch out the skyline.

I am done with the skyline, and working on the trees. After that, the streaks of colours that adorn them, turning the place from beautiful to unbelievably stunning. I can see why Mother loves this so much.

When I finish, the sunrise is long gone, and I'm hoping I've truly captured the awe–inspiring majesty of all the yellows and reds, turning the greens richer, the blues lighter, and the browns deeper. I look at the sun and judge it to be nine o'clock; I've been here for nearly three hours.

I slide down from the tree and walk home.

I present the picture to my parents. They thank me, but I see how tense they are. I'm an only child; I've heard whispered exchanges between them—something's happened, meaning they will struggle to ever conceive again. The reaping probably scares them more than me.

...

As we line up in the square, I sweat, begging not to be stolen away. Not to become a pawn in the Capitol's sadistic Games.

"Ladies first!" the stupid escort (I can't quite bring her name to the forefront) says, with a spring in her step. That sick cow. All she wants is to see another twenty–three people die bloodily and painfully. If you gave me anything I could use (so probably a sharpened pencil), I would probably hurt her. I would.

Or at least I tell myself that, but of course, let's face it: I have neither the nerve nor the skill. She could beat me—a woman that wants for nothing and has no idea how to survive.

She pulls a piece of paper from the reaping ball.

"Nathalia—" (If this is the Nathalia I think it is, Miss Snarky is in for a shock.) "—Campbell!" (Well, she won't be happy.)

The camera cuts to her, the picture of shock, as she's ushered forward by Peacekeepers. Anything to keep them rolling, huh?

"Now for the gentlemen."

I clench my fists, the old anxiety returning. It takes two words, three syllables, to seal my fate.

"Bolt—" (Okay, no need to panic. Bolt is in no way a rare name. Even one of our victors is named Bolt.) "—Huxley!" (Balls.)

I have to be within five metres of bloody Campbell. If nothing else, I wish to die after her. She annoys me so much that her having anything on me leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I step up and shake her hand, giving her a death stare to make sure she knows there's no chance of any sort of friendliness towards her. Like she'd want any. After all, she's always looked down on me because I'm not 'normal'—because I'm poor, and I stand out. She looks more like someone from District 1, and the boys talk about her all day. Seeing why I stay away from everyone yet?

...

On the train, I remember the emotionally charged moments in the Justice Building. I want to tell someone, and Beetee seems a good option. When he comes into my room to discuss plans, I spill all my worries: that my family will be broken, that I'll never see them again. That our goodbyes were just tears. He seems sympathetic, but tells me to put it to the back of my mind.

I try to, heading out of the room for lunch, most of which I spend pointedly ignoring Nathalia whilst trying not to overdo it on the many rich delicacies. The meal of a condemned person, at least if you live in a district.

In the Capitol all sustenance is provided. Money almost appears out of nowhere, and most of their lives are spent watching the Hunger Games, then watching replays once it's over, drooling over the Victory Tour, and desperately trying to get a victor to love them.

Bolt Sullivan has been vainly trying to spark a conversation, but my mood is as frosty as my stance. I want to go there, learn some skills, pick a strategy, and possibly try to make an alliance. The faster I get home—no matter how unlikely it is—the better.

Dinner proceeds in the same way. Before I know it, night has fallen, and it's time to settle down for sleep.

I dream of previous Hunger Games. Of Beetee electrocuting the other tributes, their faces contorted in agony. I could never do that. I'm not a natural at electronics like every other denizen of 3. I'm sure I could have gotten a job drawing diagrams—boring menial work, but work all the same.

...

We are nearly at the Capitol when I wake up, so I quickly dress and put on my lucky charm: a pencil tied to a string around my neck. It used to be sharp, but I blunted it to prevent it from being confiscated as a weapon.

Nathalia really plays it up as we pull in, fluttering her eyelashes to try and win sponsors. I feel like being sick, it's that ridiculous. I suppose it's a legitimate strategy—while I've never looked at her like that, boys do say she's pretty, and the only way she'll ever win is with sponsors.

She doesn't know how to ration or be hungry, hates nature, simply can't survive without money and civilisation.


	5. District 4 Reaping

**Maria Thorne, 17 ~ District 4 Female**

**CelineAnnemarie**

_I look up into Beck's emerald eyes. They reflect compassion and care. He gives me that sweet, seductive smile of his and brushes my hair behind my ear._

_"Beck, I—"_

_I'm surprised as he presses his finger to my lips. My blush deepens. "I already know...and I feel the same way," he whispers._

_I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him passionately._

...

I wake up in my bed, snuggling my pillow.

I sit up quickly. Seven a.m. I have plenty of time to spend with Beck and still be able to get ready. I place my feet on the cold wood floor, and a small shiver goes through my body. I can't help but smile at such a wonderful dream. I have only recently realized my love for him.

I can't wait to tell him that I'm going to volunteer to be a tribute this year! I run to take a shower, full of energy.

As I finish drying my hair, I realize it's seven–thirty. I get dressed in a short white dress with spaghetti–strap shoulders, and a seashell belt around the waist. I run downstairs to the kitchen, and the only people up are my mother and father. My father sits at the table, drinking coffee, and my mother makes breakfast.

I'll able to stop and chat in visitation. I tell them I'm going to see Beck. They didn't seem too fazed in the glimpse I got.

My curly blonde hair flies behind me as I run down the street, to the dock nearest my house. Beck and I always agree to see each other there before the Games. In fact, we met there; our fathers work together.

I approach the dock, my short white heels clicking on the wood. I see Beck standing on the edge towards the deep water, holding onto one of the posts. He turns as I get closer.

"Wow…Maria...you look…beautiful!" he says, almost breathless as he takes all of me in.

"Aw! Thank you!" I say, giving him a hug and blushing lightly. I knew he'd like it. Of course he would, I'm gorgeous!

I bite my lip nervously as his strong tan arms wrap around me in return. I pull away and look him in the eyes with a serious expression. His smile instantly goes away.

"Listen..." I'm still unsure, but I don't want to surprise him at the reaping.

He frowns as if he already knows. "What is it?" he asks, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

"I'm going to volunteer," I tell him with a smile.

I'm instantly horrified, as he grabs my shoulders a little harder than he normally would and shakes me lightly. "Why?! Why would you do that? What if you don't come back?! You think you can just do that to me without telling me in advance?! Maria…I can't lose you." His voice wobbles at the end, and his eyes start to fill with tears. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing will come. "Maria...I love you," he whispers, as he presses his forehead against mine. His eyes are closed. His grip on me has softened. I still can't speak. This isn't normal Beck.

"I…I love you, too." I finally find my voice and whisper that to him. I don't know what to do. I stand still and let him cry on me. "I thought…I thought you would be proud."

He lifts his head and wipes his tears away, backing up. "I'm already proud of you. You don't have to do this to prove anything for me." I suddenly glare at him.

"You don't believe in me! I already know I could win this! And it's not just for you…" I trail off. "It's for my grandmother as well. In fact…I need to go see her," I say, my voice squeaking slightly. I pull away from him with anger, and he allows me to go.

I can't believe him! How dare he!

I approach the hospice house my grandmother resides in, trying to calm down and put on a smile. I sign in at the front desk and make my way to Room 154B. I knock on the door and call her name.

"Nana Narissa?"

I open the door and see her sitting up, knitting something with her frail hands.

"Why, hello, Maria." She says my name in that raspy voice. I love it when she says my name, because she rolls the 'r's. She is dying slowly. Her hair is completely white—like clouds on a sunny day—and thinning.

I smile wide and close the door, then pull a chair next to her bed. "Good morning. How are you feeling today?" I say, a little louder than I normally talk because of her hard hearing.

"I'm doing fine. Today's the reaping, isn't it?" She smiles, licking her lips. She continues knitting whatever it is that she's making.

"It is. Nana Narissa…I have something important to tell you." I don't wait for her reaction. "I'm going to volunteer to be a tribute." On the inside I cringe, but my posture is perfect.

She looks up from her…thing. "Really? Oh, Maria…I just know you'll make me proud." She says those magical words, and I feel tears well up. She takes my hand and rubs her thumb on mine. For a seventy–year–old woman, her skin is pretty smooth. "I've been waiting for the year you would tell me that. Make sure you stand tall and make yourself heard. Make yourself someone they won't forget."

"I'm so glad you approve, Nana...Beck didn't." My nana looks at me with curiosity, and I know this means I should explain. I tell her how we admitted we love each other. She nods as she listens.

"Well…I think he's just scared. He has no reason to be scared, though. You need to make him proud of you, too," she tells me, stroking my hair with her other hand. "You're so beautiful, Maria." I glow with happiness.

"Thank you, Nana. And I will. That's all I want…is to make you proud of me before time runs out." I see tears in her eyes, and she pulls me close, giving me a hug.

"Oh...my sweet Maria." I'm so happy I can't believe it. I love making my Nana happy. She's the closest person I have.

...

The remainder of the time, I discuss the rest of the family. How my father, mother, brother, and his fiancé are doing, and how Zarna is doing. Of course, Zarna is my friend, but she's been around so long that we consider her family.

Eventually it turns into nine–thirty, and my nana tells me I should go let my mother make up my face. I smile and give her a kiss on the cheek, and tell her farewell. I make my way back to my house with twenty minutes to spare.

My mother ends up putting my hair in a ponytail. Even held up, it is still wavy. My bangs cover one of my eyes.

Zarun, my brother, tells me I look mysterious.

About as mysterious as his sexuality, I joke back at him.

Finally, it's time to go to the square for the ceremony. I'm so excited I can barely hold it in. I sign in and stand next to the other seventeen–year–olds.

I look for Zarna and find her near the front. She smiles at me, but I can see pain behind her eyes. She has known my plan for a long time now.

Beck is staring at me longingly. I smirk at the pathetic look on his face. Let him stare. It'll make him regret acting like that. I know I can win; I don't see why he doesn't.

Finally, the Mayor comes out and gives the speech we've heard year after year. I'm not listening to that. I'm not listening to anything, honestly. Especially when Raymon Delvas steps to the microphone in his normal chipper mood.

I sigh, and receive an elbow to the ribs from Zarna. I glare at her, and give a 'what do you think you're doing' look. She nods to the stage as Raymon makes his way to the girls' ball.

He reaches and takes his sweet time with pulling out a name. _Oh, come on,_ I growl in my head. He opens the slip of paper very dramatically.

The name he calls shocks me. "Zarna Epi!"

I feel Zarna stiff up. She turns and looks at me with an expression I can't read, which is odd for us, and makes her way rigidly to the stage.

"Congratulations!" Raymon says. "But first, do we have any volunteers?"

My hand automatically shoots up before anyone else, and I yell, "I volunteer as tribute!"

I move before anyone else can. Raymon offers his hand as I step up the stairs; I gingerly take it, not wanting to touch all the fakeness. I smile at Zarna as we trade places, and she doesn't have a very happy expression. I don't allow this to faze me. I keep my posture perfect and give off body language that says, _I can kick your ass._

"What is your name?" Raymon asks, holding the microphone to my face.

I clear my throat. "My name is Maria Gabriella Thorne," I say with a cocky smirk.

"Well, congratulations, Maria. Now let's move on to the boys."

Raymon takes his time picking the boy as well. "Ford Wittenberg!"

The name's owner takes his time coming from the sixteen–year–olds. I cast a glance at Beck, who still looks worried.

"Are there any volunteers?"

I watch Beck like a hawk, and our eyes meet. I smile when he looks down.

No one volunteers for the Ford boy, I don't care.

"Here are your tributes, District Four—Maria Thorne and Ford Wittenberg!"

The crowd applauds in politeness. I wink at them.

...

Zarun smirks. "So this is really happening, huh? Getting nervous?"

I smirk back. "Nope. Not at all."

And it's true: I'm actually still excited.

"So how about Ford? You worried about him?" Zarun snickers through his sentence, then busts out laughing. I laugh with him. We both know that boy is no match.

He jokingly leaves with, "Knock 'em dead." I can't help giggling.

My parents tell me good luck, and that Nana Narissa says the same. My mother gives me a beautiful seashell bracelet, so I have a little piece of home.

...

Zarna's next. There's an awkward silence.

"So...are you going to tell me good luck or anything?"

"First, you made Beck cry. Then you take my spot? You are horrible," she hisses.

I've never heard her say anything like this to me, ever.

However, I refuse to be spoken to like that. "Beck isn't in this right now. And you should be thanking me; you wouldn't last long anyway." I cock an eyebrow at her, and give the smuggest look I can.

I see fire in her eyes. I've got her now.

"You're a bitch. I doubt you'll make it past the Bloodbath."

"Well, when I get back, I'll make a bloodbath out of you," I challenge, my eyes cold, fixing her with a stare that shows I want her out of my life.

Her anger is replaced with shock and disbelief. Tears come. She nods as she regains composure and just leaves. Good riddance. She always dragged me down in the academy, complaining instead of training. Her eyes were not on the prize like mine are.

...

I'm going off on Zarna in my head, imagining other things I could have said, when Beck steps in. I figured she would have told him not to come see me.

"This...this is like a nightmare," he whispers.

I shrug and look away. "Dream come true, for me."

He sighs and sits next to me, putting his head in his hands. I so badly want to hold him. I want to kiss him like in my dream. I want to break down so he'll hold me. I'm shaking from holding back; I can't be seen as weak. He really won't believe in me then.

He slides his hands through his sandy hair, which always looks so fluffy and wonderful. We make eye contact, and his emerald eyes plead, begging me to cry on his shoulder, to let him hold me. Mine start to water.

"I love you...I'm sorry I reacted the way I did."

I almost cave in and apologize right back. But he didn't say he believes in me. That he trusts me.

The noise of a Peacekeeper opening the door catches my attention, and I turn around to Beck pressing his soft lips against mine. His body is so close; I don't even know how he moved so quickly. His hand is on the back of my head, holding it in place. I want to cry. I want to be mad. But I can't do anything.

The Peacekeeper tears him away, and he calls back, "Just come home!"

'Just come home'? That's it? You aren't worthy of me. I want to punch the wall I'm so angry. But I also want to melt because of how happy I am. What do I do? Why would he do this to me?

...

I get on the high–speed train to the Capitol, playing smug. I can't let Ford know that I'm bothered by something. The door opens with a whoosh, and we enter quietly.

Zachary seems a little distant as he sits beside Ford, most likely thinking about Aqua and Coral; Mags is her normal Live–in–the–Moment self.

"So! Do you have anything to say to each other?" Raymon asks us. I glare before looking at Ford.

I'm taken aback slightly, because I didn't realize how pretty his eyes were. Baby blue. They really are beautiful. His light blonde hair is everywhere, with a braid near his shoulder, and his body is toned. Definitely a swimmer, like most boys.

I wait for him to speak first—let's see what he has to say.

"Ah, what a wonderful oasis of beauty that has decided to grace us today. Maria, was it? I would like a chance to introduce myself—I am Ford," he proclaims, then finishes off with a theatrical bow. "At your service." He lowers his voice so only I can hear. "In more ways than one."

I blush, not having expected him to say such a thing. But I am not to be outdone!

I throw on a coy smile and respond, "My, quite the charmer, aren't you? Can you make that a promise?" I wink, my voice as quiet as his. If he wants to play this game to intimidate, he picked the wrong target.

"Of course, my dear lady, I am," he says to the entire room, smiling at me as if (in a weird way) answering my second question.

He kneels and kisses my hand. I'm glad his eyes are closed, or he would see my awkward face; I've never had a male do this to me, and I don't know if I like it.

He stands, and I quickly change my expression to apathy. He makes his way to his seat as if nothing happened.

He truly is quite the opponent. Should I make some witty comment about his competence, or just give him a degrading nickname? Which would make me better than him? I feel the entire room staring, but I don't break eye contact with Ford.

He interrupts my thought process. "My sweet Maria, move your pawn and I'll move my knight. Move your queen, and it's nighty–night." He recites a poem about chess I've never heard. "No matter where you lead this game of wits, I shall follow but still emerge. Why don't you do as other women do, and hate me or love me?" His eyes show something that resembles fatigue. Does he not enjoy this game?

I open my mouth, then keep it shut. Everyone is waiting to see what my next move will be. It feels like we really are playing chess.

I was never good at chess.

I strut over and sit on his lap, putting my arms around him. "I may not be able to beat you in wits. . .but let's see how you fare against temptation," I whisper in his ear.

Mags laughs and walks off, pulling a fussing Raymon. She'll get onto me later, but for now she chooses not to do anything. Zachary watches, still not seeming to be here.

"Temptation is nothing new to me. But it is ungentlemanly to kiss a lady in front of an audience. Not that I fear of losing chance to chase you any time soon," Ford says, leaning his head to the side and resting it in three of his fingers, shaped like an 'L'. "Pawn moves. Your turn, Maria."

Excuse me? Did he just do what I think he did? I mask my anger with playfulness, and arch an eyebrow. "Are you saying I'll be an easy catch?" Suddenly, I get an idea. I feign a yawn and stretch my arms, making sure my busty chest is pressing up near his face.

His head moves to get away, a gleam in his eye. "Milady, to be explicitly clear"—I almost giggle at his innuendo—"I am saying that neither of us would give up out of boredom, or because of annoyance, or to be caught. You would be a very hard girl to catch, even with the way you put yourself out there. You enjoy being chased. However, it would have been a great honor to have been yours; a pity our time together will be short. Perhaps it shall be sweet?"

My eyes soften at his words. _It would have been a great honor to be yours_. I shake off that stunned look and replace it with a hardened, sultry one. I can't be seen as weak or easy to get to.

I straddle him, placing my hands on his chest for balance. "What is your game?"

"My game is simple: Carpe diem. Live for today. I wish only to be something important, not a rich child who inherited wealth. It is usually the simplest games that puzzle the greatest minds." He reaches up and touches my hand; I almost yank it away. "I've shown you mine, will you show me yours?" A joking grin pops over the serious demeanor he carries usually. He holds my hand in both of his.

I stare into his eyes, yet look right through him. I see Beck. What would Beck say if he were to see me doing this to Ford? What would he say if–? Wait. Why should I care?

"Show you mine, 'eh?" I say finally with a wide smile. I look back at Zachary and get up, trailing my hands down Ford's thighs as I do. "I think that might have to wait until later." I wink at Ford, and start to head to my room. "Unless you think different," I add, inviting him to follow. My expression shows I don't care whether he comes along or not. I'll make Beck pay.

I keep the door unlocked, and study everything.

I fall on the soft, plush bed to test it. I almost want to fall asleep. . .or cry, whichever comes first. I decide now is not the time to do either.

So I get up and move to the dresser. I don't know why this thing has clothes in it; I guess in case anything happens and it takes longer to get to the Capitol than expected. I'm about to take them out when I hear a soft knock at the door, and Ford's voice from the other side.

"Maria, is it safe to come in? I won't find a sword or a naked woman facing me right off?" he jokes.

I think.

"It's safe, silly." I smirk and tilt my head at him, closing the dresser.

He opens the door a crack and peeks in, attempting to pull off some shy act. I already know that he is nowhere near shy. He steps in and shuts the door behind him. "Good, I'd hate for this relationship to end before it even left the harbor."

I giggle again. "Relationship, 'eh?" I'll kill him before it turns into that. I lay back on my bed, propping my head up with my elbow, and give him a playful look.

"Would it be better to say 'arrangement', 'friendship', 'deal'? I'm rather flexible, but I would dare bet that you have me all but beat in that department." I must say, he has one charming smile. He leans against the door and relaxes visibly.

I smirk, and walk to him with my eyes narrowed. I'll make sure to put a stop to that. I raise an eyebrow, then grab his tie and pull his body close to mine. "You already loosened it? Did you expect me to do this?" I ask playfully.

"I must admit that it indeed crossed my mind on multiple occasions, but no, it's just that I am not one for stuffy outfits such as these." He's wearing a formal ivory suit with gold string to highlight certain points. Rising to my challenge, he reaches his arms around me, pulling us together. "Rook attacks. Your move, my beautiful Maria."

I feel a shiver go down my spine. It's interesting what this boy is doing to me. . .but it also creeps me out a bit. I push him onto my bed. "If it's so stuffy, take it off." I stand in front of him. I want to see exactly how far he plans on taking our first meeting.

"If it's at your command, so I shall act." He removes it from his neck in one fell swoop, his grace suggesting he has had a lot of practice repeating that motion. He holds the white tie with a golden narwhale out to me, as if it's a child's first catch. "Check," he whispers to himself, almost inaudible.

Check, my ass. I set it next to him and move myself between his legs, placing my hands lightly on his shoulders. "I don't know what game we're playing," I start, and lean in, whispering the rest: "But I kind of like it." I bite at his neck softly. Pawn moves. . .take the bait. . .

"Hm? It's no game, no jest. Just you, me, and a test to pass." He grins for a moment. Closing his eyes and emptying his face, he looks at me with a thin smile. I can see the gears in his head turning. "If you like where this is going, Maria, then you're definitely going to be enthusiastic about the end," he remarks, putting his hands on my hips—not lightly, but not heavily either.

I smirk. "I feel as if the same could be said for you, Shark Bait." I giggle at the pet name, and bite the other side of his neck. I'm proud of myself for being clever.

He leans, inviting me to bite more. "Shark Bait—is that the most apt name you could give me?" He traces a finger up my hips and around my stomach, ending at my belly button. I don't like my belly button being touched; it's like a portal to your insides, and it's ugly. "I'm shocked, I thought you were much wittier than that."

Now he's done it.

I shove him down. The shiver he had given me almost shakes the beginning of my sentence. "Should I start biting you as hard as a shark does so the name means more?" I raise an eyebrow, my voice almost a growl.

He slowly sits up. "As much as I enjoy being bit by you, and as much as I think you enjoy biting me, there is a much softer and. . .more enjoyable path through this." He lets a soft smile hit his lips—in an attempt to calm me, I assume—as he lightly traces his right index finger across my collarbone. "There's no need to be rough this early in the relationship." He flashes another one of those smiles. I fight the urge to kiss him, and simply press my forehead against his gently. I know my cheeks must be bright red, because I can feel them burning.

"What exactly are you thinking?" I ask, wondering if he means what I think he means. The thought that's on every boy and man's mind.

"To be completely honest, I'm only thinking of a way to escape such a dreaded name as 'Shark Bait'." He chuckles once, and stands and lays me on the bed; I'll admit he shocks me by doing this so suddenly, and I'm surprised I allowed him. I'm not used to not being in control. "So I'm open to suggestions." He presses his forehead to mine, the back of his hand stroking my cheek.

I slide my hands through his hair softly, fighting the urge to take back control. "Mm. . ._I'm_ open for suggestions," I purr. I place my hands on the back of his head, and press my lips against his. Did I really do that?

I think I shocked him, because he's the one who breaks the kiss. He closes his eyes, then looks into mine. "Between the two of us, we should be able to think of something. I mean, we_ are_ Careers," he quips. He slides his hand down my legs, then back up again, kissing my jawline.

My chest presses against his body. "Why don't we come up with that later? We seem a little. . .distracted." I run a hand along his inner thigh, winking.

Ford keeps silent and smiles. He leans in to kiss me, and then whispers in my ear, "All right." Leaning back, he brushes his hand on my cheek. What is going through his mind right now, I have to wonder. . .

I move over, and pull him onto the bed by his shirt collar. "So what are you thinking?" I ask, taking the blunt route to figuring it out.

"I'm thinking, 'That is most definitely not me.' But I'm also quite glad that it's not me. What are you thinking?" Well, that sort of answers my question. . .but I feel as if he's hiding his true thoughts. I'm going to be his enemy soon, so I guess it's good that he is.

"My mind is blank," I say. I'm a good liar, but I really hope he's not good at catching lies. Truthfully, my mind is on Beck. Still reliving this morning's dream, and the moment I told him I was going to volunteer. I wish the dream version had been the real one.

"Completely blank? Must be heaven, not having a thought or a care." So he's not good, or he doesn't care to ask why I'm lying. He frowns, then closes his eyes, opens them, and smiles. He lazily traces a finger across my stomach, executing a few loops and resting on my belly button. I won't stand for this twice.

I grimace and push him away. "I don't like people touching me there."

"I apologize—from your reaction earlier, I thought you liked it. My mistake." Ford's eyes narrow.

You mean the one where I pushed you down and threatened to rip your neck open? Yeah, that really says enjoyment. I smile and bite his neck harder, to show him that it is not okay. "It's okay. I just don't like my belly button being touched."

His shoulders tense. "And I'm not one to enjoy having teeth sunk into my neck," he says, gently prying me off. Really? I could have sworn you offered your neck to me not too long ago.

"Really? I pegged you for the sort to be a masochist."

"Ah, never trust first assumptions, my dear; I pegged you as such a kind-hearted woman, but I see I was wrong." A teasing smile springs across his face.

I'm about to say something, when I get another good look; he is quite handsome…I can't believe the thoughts that are going through my head right now. I can't believe I'm considering continuing this.

I slowly get off of my bed, then shake my head before walking to the door, stomach growling; I didn't eat anything before I left. I cross into the dining compartment, and find Zachary and Mags.

I take a seat at the table and make a plate. "So, how does the competition look?" I ask, uneasy with the silence. Zachary looks as if he doesn't hear me.

Mags gives me a wide grin. "I think District Four will have another win this year." I can't tell if she's talking about Ford or me, but it doesn't matter what she thinks.

"That boy from Nine seems like someone to be wary of," Zachary says, not looking up from his steak. "I mean…someone from Nine, volunteering?" I wonder if he gave Ford the same advice.

Mag's grin becomes smaller. "That may be so, but also keep in mind the other Careers. They are the real competition," she says, before taking a drink.

"Nothing I can't handle."

Something sparkles in Zachary's eyes. Maybe admiration?

Mags cackles in amusement. "Definitely a winner."

* * *

**Ford Wittenberg, 16 ~ District 4 Male**

**John 'Doc' Holliday**

...

_"We call them strong, those who can cut with a blade of war. We call them immortal, those who can be cut with said blade and survive. But what do we call those who need to be cut by the blades of love? Weak. Wrong. But in the end, we are the ones who are weak."_

_-Origin Unknown_

...

I lunge out of bed, sputtering, coughing up seawater. It takes me a second to realize why; I mean, it's not like my house is close to any large bodies of water—we live in the middle of a city. As I open my eyes through the stinging salt, I get a glimpse of one of my family's servants, my friend Brine.

He laughs as he sees me flailing around. "Get up, you lazy fool, it's reaping day."

"Brine, are you kidding me? You could have drowned me!" I protest, rather weakly. In fact, I needed that splash to get me going. I shake my head, and water flies across the room and my side-ponytail braid sticks to my face. I smile, peeling it off and opening my baby blue eyes fully for the first time all day.

"Not my fault my best friend is some pansy–waisted rich kid. . .You gonna' talk to your dad about that today?" 'That' is a gorgeous brunette about half my mother's age that my father's been seeing.

"Yeah, if I get reaped." Odds are I won't, and my father will think no one knows. I better get clothed formally and stop looking like an idiot, standing in this puddle. "Will you clean up your mess?"

"Of course, milord." Brine smirks at his referencing my favorite story, the tale of King Arthur and the Lake's Ladies.

I laugh over my shoulder as I go to wash up and change into my reaping outfit. My parents bought me an ivory–white suit with matching tie and shoes. I find the amount of money spent outlandish, and dislike the whole idea. However, my parents insist that I stand out, even if I am not going to go to the Games.

I take care to be well groomed, especially my hair, which I always brush even though I try to make it look unkempt. I braid my long lock and throw it around my shoulder.

I think at this time about the Lake's Ladies and the Knights of the Round Table, led by Merlin the sorcerer and the King Arthur Pendragon.

King Arthur, with the help of Merlin, gathered twenty–five of the world's greatest knights. Honorable warriors. Then with the blessing of the Lady of the Lake, he set to bring peace to a troubled land using a sword forged in the water. He couldn't have done anything he did without the Ladies of the Lake; no one can, for they guide and protect us all. They gave me this coin—it's green with corrosion, but still beautiful. On one side, there's an eagle holding a trident in its talons, and on the other side an anchor and compass. I use it to determine choices I don't want to make. I rely on the decision of the Lake's Ladies.

I close my eyes for a moment and erase all emotion from my face. I consider this a way to "wipe the slate clean", and give myself a fresh outlook. It's my thinking face.

"Hey, Brine!" I call out. "You wanna' go for a walk real quick?"

"Sure thing. Grab us some grub, though, will ya'?" Brine smiles, his eyes twinkling despite their impending blindness from cataracts. Years ago, he was bitten saving a little girl from a poisonous fish. A hero if there ever were such a thing. To her, it would have been fatal.

Brine, to me, is Sir Galahad, the innocent and the strong. I am simply Sir Tristan, the pure and the meek. I have done naught but enjoy fancy parties and court ladies, yet wish to do something to show that I'm not an empty shell with lofty ambitions. . .I aspire to be a Galahad.

As I rush downstairs, I greet my parents hurriedly and grab a sack of food that a servant probably prepared. I don't like eating with my parents because it's stuffy and hollow. I rush out the door and nearly run into another servant, Pebble.

Pebble doesn't do much, but she stays around and brightens up the place, helping the others with little things. It's a lot for a twelve–year–old, though.

"Sorry, Pebble! Stay safe and have fun today!" I yell over my shoulder.

...

Brine waits for me at the pier of our private pond, smiling like he always does. I chuckle to myself, and toss him the bag after I grab some food out of it.

We sit there munching, not saying much, just listening to the pond and animals.

"So I guess I owe you the final tale of Arthur and his Knights. The final Knight of Rounds is named Mordred, his father Arthur Pendragon, and his mother Morgana le Fey. Mordred was twisted. His father always gave him leeway to do whatever he wanted, and he thought he was invincible. In the end, he was a cocky, stuck–up knight who caused pain and suffering to all he knew. A man like Mordred has a great empty hole through the middle of him. He can never kill enough, or steal enough, or inflict enough pain to fill it. What he needs is revenge. In the end, the man who dealt Arthur his mortal blow was none other than Sir Mordred. I didn't tell you this before because I was afraid you'd consider yourself to be like Mordred."

After hearing that, I realize how messed up Mordred must have been. His mother his enemy, and his father his king. I perk up. "You said a man like Mordred needs revenge—revenge for what?"

Brine lowers his head and his voice. "Being born."

In shock, I start thinking about how I seem to be a direct parallel of this Sir Mordred, and how scary that revelation really is.

He interrupts my thoughts and holds my shoulder. "But you're not a cowardly fool like Mordred. You are Sir Tristan the pure, remember that." He gets up, walks away, and leaves me to go to the reaping.

I sit with my eyes closed, wondering about what he told me. Mordred, a strong knight, but a traitor to the throne and his father. I can see how he resembles me. But today I confront my father for a different reason: purity, not hatred.

I stand and dust myself off. Whether or not I get reaped, today is going to be a long day.

...

I show up twenty minutes early because it's polite, and walk to the booths filled with officials and Peacekeepers. The only people here are hardliners, like last year's tribute Nolan Nixe. Now there is someone I really wish I could be like—the hero, the warrior. He seemed like an ass, unsavory and heartless, but he was a hurt child looking for someone to mend it; I like to think he found that in Lila. But I don't believe it _flowed_ both ways, you know? His attitude was bluster, all of him was. In fact, he didn't even love killing. He just wanted to ruin his father. Simple, even childish.

I'm just a spoiled brat.

I get in line for the entrance. Before the Peacekeeper can demand my finger, I offer my hand with an air of aloofness that makes them edgy.

"Ford Wittenberg. Go to your section."

I quickly head to my section, and stand next to a seasoned fighter who always tries to pick on me. Wits beat strength near the end. "Hey, punk, who d'you think you are, acting like you own the place! I oughta'—"

"Bow wow wow, stop barking, little doggy."

His eyes widen in rage, but he does definitely shut the hell up. I love stupid people.

I look around, and see the area is already full. It looks like the reaping is beginning. The puppet of a mayor comes forth and gives that stupid speech that I could quote forward and backward by now. (I could give the speech with more passion than him.) It's saddening, you know; they truly expect this to tame the districts? Brain–addled fools. A hero will emerge in white ivory armor and ask the castle's lady for a token, and destroy the bullying mongrel. Who shall be our Arthur? I look to a non–Career district. They have nothing to lose, like Lancelot.

Raymon takes the stage. Before we pick our lucky children and leave for glory, I chuckle to myself sarcastically. "Welcome, all. Now, since I'm not one for long speeches, let's get to the reaping."

He takes his time. When he does pull out a name, it's Zarna Epi, a bitch who I could take in my sleep.

My thoughts are ruined when a girl I haven't met jumps forward. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Wow, she's not bad–looking. A little bit older than me. Any other time of the year, and I'd be trying to woo her. A pity, really—poor timing, a waste of a good girl.

Raymon ushers her forward and asks her name. Yawn. Tell me already, dimwit.

"My name is Maria Gabriella Thorne." It may very well fit this calm, collected woman. She looks like a rose, but bites like a thorn.

Raymon smiles diplomatically. "Well, congratulations, Maria. Now let's move on to the boys." He reaches in, and I watch the tanned rat my father bought and I rebought. Just in case. Business is, well, business. "Ford Wittenberg!"

I smile easily. My name means nothing to him, but to adults and hundreds of my peers, it's a legend. I step slowly but with purpose to the stage, making my entrance as forceful as possible. To drive the dagger into my father, and show my fangs to the world. I am Tristan, hear my battle cry.

...

They usher me into a room, where I refuse anyone but my father and Brine, in that order.

My father enters in a fit of rage.

I smile. Not my pleased, diplomatic, teasing, or leering smile. One filled with blood and hate—the smile of a predator, the smile of Nolan.

"I saved you from this fate, you fool! Now your mother is crying. How did you stop the volunteer?" He rants for a few seconds, and I let him.

Now it's my turn. "I paid the rat off, it wasn't hard. I did it because you, Father, are a lying cur!"

He looks shocked, on his heels. I have him now.

"W–what do you mean? My business is hon—" he begins, but he will not misdirect me.

"I refer to that woman you meet every Tuesday at seven, and twice a week on holidays. Unless Mother knows, and I misjudged you. Then I have no quarrel."

His eyes narrow. "You ungrateful dog, how different are you from me? Running around with a new skirt every other month?"

"There is only one! No matter how many I chase, I only catch one. That is our difference. Leave my sight; I don't want to hear your accusations." As an afterthought to show my power, "Oh, and tell Brine he can enter now."

"So it's done, 'eh?" Brine queries cautiously as he enters. "Was it hard?"

"Easier than I made it to be in my mind. Thank you, Brine. Tell the Peacekeeper I want to go to the train early."

...

As I wait for the party on the train to the Capitol, I think how my rebirth is nearly complete; I am nearly the man I dream of being. A pity Brine cannot see me now. Galahad, is this how you pictured Tristan riding in?

Zachary seems out of it, poor man. He sits next to me, barely even noticing me. Mags, the old hag, comes in cackling and carefree.

"So! Do you have anything to say to each other?" Raymon asks us.

I have a few questions for that man.

I roll my head lazily at Maria. She's even more gorgeous in person. The way she holds herself tells me that her toned body comes mostly naturally, but is chiseled just right. A Mona Lisa.

I stand gracefully, giving a sweeping smile, not turning the charm on too high. "Ah, what a wonderful oasis of beauty that has decided to grace us today. Maria, was it? I would like the chance to introduce myself—I am Ford," I proclaim dramatically, then finish off with a theatrical bow. "At your service." I lower my voice so only she can hear me. "In more ways than one."

She blushes, and I know I hit home. She enjoys a good chase, but she's a hunter and isn't used to being properly hunted herself. She has a weakness.

She throws a coy smile at me, and responds, "My, quite the charmer, aren't you?" She smirks and moves a little closer. Lucky me, I can smell her perfume; it's a near–rapture, but I've faced that before and kept my cool. "Can you make that a promise?" She winks.

Hmmm, she misguessed my target.

"Of course, my dear lady, I am." I answer both of her questions without revealing our secret conversation. I kneel and kiss her hand, then smile and mildly return to my chair, flopping into it.

She is obviously thinking this is a competition, but it's over and she's lost. To prove it, I interrupt her pensiveness with some barely remembered rhyme on chess. "My sweet Maria, move your pawn and I'll move my knight. Move your queen, and it's nighty–night." I let my eyes show my soul and its wear. This game takes its toll; hunting hearts is harder than I let on. "No matter where you lead this game of wits, I shall follow but still emerge. Why don't you do as other women do, and hate me or love me?"

She seems to give up on verbally sparring and sits in my lap, wrapping her arms around me. "I may not be able to beat you in wits. . .but let's see how you fare against temptation," she whispers in my ear, her breath like a breeze on the seashore. Zachary sits nonplussed, but Mags, laughing, drags away our bluthering escort.

"Temptation is nothing new to me. But it is ungentlemanly to kiss a lady in front of an audience. Not that I fear of losing chance to chase you any time soon," I respond coolly. I lean my head into my right hand, my index and middle fingers and thumb forming an 'L'. "Pawn moves. Your turn, Maria."

She bristles instantly. "Are you saying I'll be an easy catch?"

She suddenly yawns, jutting her chest into my face. Nice move, but it's happened to me before, so it's just not good enough.

I move back slightly to clear my mouth and eyes from her breasts. "Milady, to be explicitly clear, I am saying that neither of us would give up out of boredom, or because of annoyance, or to be caught. You would be a very hard girl to catch, even with the way you put yourself out there. You enjoy being chased. However, it would have been a great honor to have been yours; a pity our time together will be short. Perhaps it shall be sweet?"

I smile easily as Maria blushes. But she doesn't let up the attack, even though it's futile. "What's your game?"

"My game is simple: Carpe diem. Live for today. I wish only to be something important, not a rich child who inherited wealth. It is usually the simplest games that puzzle the greatest minds." I touch her hand. "I've shown you mine, will you show me yours?" I grin, and hold both of her hands in mine.

She's silent for a while. "Show you mine, 'eh?" Then she looks at Zachary, and back at me, rubbing my thighs. "I think that might have to wait until later." She winks, and heads to her room. "Unless you think different."

I look at Zachary, and gesture to the fleeing form of Maria. "Any advice, mentor?" I ask as I start fiddling with my coin.

"I think you shouldn't," he cautions. "It's unwise to get involved."

I look at my coin, seeing the eagle and trident, and stand. "Involvement? I cancel relationships and business deals around reaping day; I think I know how to stay uninvolved. But I'll have to give chase, it seems."

He just shakes his head at me.

...

I loosen my tie to breathe easier, and knock at her door. "Maria, is it safe to come in? I won't find a sword or a naked woman facing me right off?"

I hear giggling from inside. "It's safe, silly."

I open the door a crack and barely peek in, taking an exaggerated look around for traps I know aren't there. "Good, I'd hate for this relationship to end before it even left the harbor."

She giggles. "Relationship, 'eh?" She moves to the bed, laying back and propping her head on her hand.

"Would it be better to say 'arrangement', 'friendship', 'deal'? I'm rather flexible, but I would dare bet that you have me all but beat in that department." I smile one of my most charming smiles—a deal–breaker smile—and lean back against the door, relaxing. It's been a long day, hasn't it?

She smirks, walking up. She's no longer a temptress, all predator; even in her eyes I can see the instincts. This will get interesting.

She yanks on my tie, but it doesn't hurt since I loosened it.

"You already loosened it? Did you expect me to do this?" she teases me.

"I must admit that it indeed crossed my mind on multiple occasions, but no, it's just that I am not one for stuffy outfits such as these." I stretch my arms around her, and pull her in close. "Rook attacks. Your move, my beautiful Maria."

She shivers slightly, then pushes me to the bed. "If it's so stuffy, take it off." She stands like one of the teachers at the academy.

"If it's at your command, so I shall act." I slip my tie off my neck with ease, then hold it out to her as a prize. "Check," I whisper.

She moves between my legs, and lays her hands on my shoulders almost as if they're floating. "I don't know what game we're playing," she starts, then switches to a whisper, leaning in, "but I kind of like it." She lightly bites my neck, and I savor the touch.

"Hm? It's no game, no jest. Just you, me, and a test to pass." I temporarily grin. I close my eyes, and all emotion leaves my face. "If you like where this is going, Maria, then you're definitely going to be enthusiastic about the end," I say, lightly handling her hips to get a better feel for her.

She smirks; I hate that smirk, but love to see it all at the same time. "I feel as if the same could be said for you, Shark Bait." She giggles, and bites the other side of my neck.

I lean my head away, exposing my neck but freeing myself. "Shark Bait—is that the most apt name you could give me?" I trace my finger around her stomach, fringing at her ribs, ending at her belly button. "I'm shocked, I thought you were much wittier than that."

She shoves me down hard. "Should I start biting you as hard as a shark does so the name means more?" She reminds me of a wolf; I've read about it.

Even with her show, she's still rubbing my legs. I don't fully get her. It's. . .refreshing.

I slowly sit up. "As much as I enjoy being bit by you, and as much as I think you enjoy biting me, there is a much softer and. . .more enjoyable path through this." I give a reassuring smile while I trace her collarbone. "There's no need to be rough this early in the relationship." I flash another one of my deal–breaking smiles. She presses her forehead to mine, her face a bright red. I'm starting to wonder if she's more bluster than experience. Even though she's a bit older than me.

"What exactly are you thinking?"

"To be completely honest, I'm only thinking of a way to escape such a dreaded name as 'Shark Bait'." I chuckle, standing and laying her on the bed where I was. I'm a little shocked she's letting me take charge. "So I'm open to suggestions." I lay my forehead on hers, using the back of my hand to try and cool her cheek without letting her feel how sweaty my palms are right now.

She slides her hands through my hair; it kinda' tickles. "Mm. . ._I'm_ open for suggestions." Then she brings my head forward and kisses me. It's sudden. But her lips are soft, and it feels amazing. I break off the kiss and close my eyes, resetting my brain.

"Between the two of us, we should be able to think of something. I mean, we _are_ Careers," I quip. I slide my hands along her legs, and kiss her jaw.

She pushes me back and sits up, pressing her chest onto mine. "Why don't we come up with that later? We seem a little. . .distracted." She smiles, slightly sinisterly rubbing the inside of my thigh. It's hard for me to keep focused on her.

"All right," I whisper in her ear, trying to elicit another blush from her beautiful cheeks.

I allow her to pull me on the bed. "So what are you thinking?" she asks.

"I'm thinking, 'That is most definitely not me.' But I'm also quite glad that it's not me. What are you thinking?"

"My mind is blank," she responds.

"Completely blank? Must be heaven, not having a thought or a care," I remark, knowing she doesn't really mean it. She's choosing her words much too carefully. Her mind is somewhere else, but I can't begin to guess where.

I lazily trace my finger across her stomach again, performing a few loops before I finally touch her belly button. She pushes my hand away.

"I don't like people touching me there."

"I apologize—from your reaction earlier, I thought you liked it. My mistake."

She bites my neck quite a bit harder than before. "It's okay. I just don't like my belly button being touched." My shoulders involuntarily tense. I pry her off.

"And I'm not one to enjoy having teeth sunk into my neck."

"Really? I pegged you for the sort to be a masochist."

"Ah, never trust first assumptions, my dear; I pegged you as such a kind–hearted woman, but I see I was wrong."

She leaves me alone on her bed. I walk out now that she's gone, putting my tie in a pocket and unbuttoning my collar. She's good, but I can be better.

I sit in the lounge, and spend the rest of the ride reading a book on auras and their effect in battle.


	6. District 5 Reaping

**Ampere Henry****, 14 ~ District 5 Female**

**daydreamer626**

No. Not me. No.

The colored bird—he's covered in pied feathers, and has an extremely prominent, aquiline orange nose—frowns expectantly and scans the crowd.

"Am—Ampere Henry!"

There it is again. My name.

The name of which I was always so proud turns itself into a bloody knife, and takes my breath away whenever I hear it.

There will be no hiding from the Peacekeepers. They'd know me anywhere. I threw a fit three years ago when my sister, Ash, was reaped; a Peacekeeper tried to push me away, and I punched him in his soft spot.

Looking up, I see my face on the bright television screens. I'm calm. A gloved hand wraps around my bicep and drags me away from Marie, who looks distraught. I search wildly for my older brother Isaac, Ash's twin; I can't imagine the pain he's going through. His other sister is almost guaranteed to come back to District 5—in a coffin.

I scan the square.

Brites Neuton is pale, and looks as though he wants to beat Birdy to a pulp. And he can.

I can't find one person willing to look me in the eye; it would appear that I blame them for my predicament. The gloved hand jerks me to the stage, but I feel the Peacekeeper keeping an arm's–length distance. Good. He should be afraid.

My feet thump against the cool metal stairs, and it takes all of my sanity to mount them towards Birdy, who is gesturing wildly at me, cooing over District 5's thirty–eighth female tribute.

"Ah, Ampere, my dear." He pronounces it 'am-pear', like the fruit. "Y–you l–look simply wonderful!" Birdy has a fake smile. What he said is a lie.

My dark brown hair has simply been rinsed, hastily combed, and braided. I have a slight frame that shakes ever—so—slightly from fear. He just wants to move things along.

"Am–peer," I reply, uncaring of the consequences. There is nothing anyone can do to me now.

Our previous victors, Shilo and Vanth, regard me with budding interest.

Shilo looks about forty. She won by luring the District 2 boy to the edge of a cliff, then shoving him over when he charged her.

Vanth is an alcoholic mess. Even from this distance, I can smell the spirits. But watching his Games from ten years ago, I know he is a genius, more so than most of 5.

Birdy addresses the crowd, asking the question whose answer is always negligible. "A–are there any v–v–volunteers?"

I quickly find Marie's red hair in the fourteen–year–old section, and warn her with a glare not to say anything. Between her or me going into the death sentence known as the Hunger Games, I'd pick myself in a heartbeat.

"Well, let's give a h–hand to Ampere Henry!" (The fruit again.) Polite applause, though forced. "And now, on to the boys!"

Birdy is obviously intimidated as he realizes who I am.

Bright orange catches my eye, and only the direness of my situation stops me from laughing at his tall orange boots, which resemble bird legs.

Birdy is so eager, he reaches for the ball too quickly and it tips over, shattering. Flustered and mindful of the slight, rippling snickers, he seizes the first slip he can find—one that looks as though it was near the bottom of the ball.

"Austin Hexson!"

My male counterpart's name doesn't ring a bell. Still, I scan the crowd, only for my eyes to land on a seventeen–year–old boy with wavy blond hair and green eyes. About 5'10", he carries himself as strong, but what really makes me pay attention is his muscular body's mad twitching as he approaches.

"Up you come. Don't be shy."

Birdy grips Austin's shoulders and positions him next to me. I want so badly to ask why he twitches like that, but I put it down to anxiety. Besides, I should look like another forgettable face—anything unlike that will paint a target on my back.

No volunteers step forward. Everyone can tell that Austin is District 5's best shot.

I have a shot, albeit small, but I don't always think things through—something that could turn fatal.

"Ampere Henry and Austin Hexson, y–your tributes for the Thirty–eighth annual H–Hunger Games!" Birdy seizes my hand, then one of Austin's, and thrusts them into the air. I feel the claws he calls fingernails dig in.

When he releases our hands, I find myself staring involuntarily at Austin, who continues to twitch. I see his struggle to control himself, ever—mindful of the cameras feasting themselves on two innocent children. Is it an angle? Or does he panic under pressure? Maybe he's shy. I feel pity for him; he's seventeen, so he would have been safe this time next year. Still, I'd rather see someone older than twelve.

Birdy hisses for us to shake hands. I force myself to look at Austin while I shake his hand, which grips mine tightly. I give what I hope is a friendly smile, meant to reassure him.

We are then ushered into the Justice Building, an increasingly dilapidated structure with four stone pillars.

I end up in a small–but–clean room with coarse red carpet and a scruffy couch. Ironically, it is the one I remember being in three years ago. The door flies open, and I'm engulfed in a strong pair of arms: Isaac. My parents fly in on his heels, struggling not to cry.

"Ampere. Oh no, oh no, this can't be happening. Not again."

"There's nothing that we could do, Isaac," I tell him, trying to put on a brave front. "It was pure luck."

Nothing else needs to be said.

Losing one child is hard enough. Watching the youngest beaten within an inch of her life is harder still. Watching as she's reaped and sent to die as well is almost incomprehensible.

"Just know that...that we will understand if you...kill someone. We understand."

Dad. The man who was always so full of life, despite how hard our life is—is breaking down.

"Enriko, don't say that!" Mom looks at Dad harshly.

"He's right," I tell her, feeling my throat close up. "I...I might not know how to use any weapons, but I still have to kill people to get through."

"No, you don't!" Mom screams, a dangerous look on her face. "Promise me you won't kill anyone. And look after Austin; he doesn't seem quite...right."

"Get a knife," Isaac adds. "They almost always have them."

A Peacekeeper chooses that moment to stroll into the room and announce loudly, "Time's up."

"Ampere, promise!"

"I promise," I manage.

Isaac tries to give me one last hug, but the Peacekeeper seizes his arm and all but tosses him out. (He had to literally be handcuffed when he refused to let go of Ash.)

Mom and Dad kiss me on the forehead. Then they too are shoved out the door. I sit on the couch, using a little trick I've learned to stop my tears: I take a deep breath, and on the exhale clear my throat.

...

"Ampere?"

I jump, so lost in my thoughts that I'd remained oblivious to the sound of the door opening. A flash of red, and arms squeeze me as hands rub my back comfortingly—Marie and Brites.

"I'msosorry, Ishouldhavevolunteeredforyou," Marie babbles, tears flooding down her cheeks.

"No, I wouldn't have let you. And it's not your fault; it was just luck."

"Rotten luck," Brites says. "But look, you're smart, one of the best in our class. The professors were even considering giving you the assessment early."

The assessment is devised by our teachers, and given to sixteen–year–olds. Depending on the final score, the kid is assigned to one of three types of power plants—thermal, natural (like solar, wind, hydro), or nuclear—and apprenticed to learn the job. Upon graduating school at eighteen, and once they're out of the reaping, he or she finds a job in the trade they were taught. Learning that I was recommended for it only serves to remind me of the Capitol's barbarism. Killing innocent, bright children for entertainment is inhumane. I consider it genocide.

"Point is—you're smart, you're clever, you're likeable."

"I'm impulsive," I say grimly. "I have no experience with weapons."

"You have a great personality," Brites continues as if I hadn't interrupted. "You're good–looking." I hold back a grin as I watch him blush. "And brains trump brawn any day!"

Knowing when I'm beat, I hold out my arms. Marie and Brites fill the gap between them, and we stay like this, unspeaking, until the same Peacekeeper comes in. I unwillingly release them, and they walk with him.

The room's silence drowns me.

I'm surprised at how calm I've been since Birdy pulled my name out, but I put it down to being numb with shock.

It's good I'm keeping a level head; there was a tribute in an earlier Games, I think from 9, who sobbed all the way to the start. He stepped off his plate one second too early and, well…District 9 didn't have a victor that year.

...

A third knock snaps me out of my thoughts. Shilo walks in, and looks me in the eye. "It's time. Are you ready?"

It's a rhetorical question.

On cue, Peacekeepers pop up on either side of Shilo, staring down at me coldly. No doubt making sure I don't run off.

Shilo keeps a comforting hand on my back, gently steering me to the waiting car that will take us to the train station. I feel stragglers' pity, but I know if I look up, they will act as though they haven't been gawking.

Austin is already seated. I'm hesitant to climb next to him, mainly because he scares me, but also because I know I can't contain my curiosity for long.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," I say. "I mean—one more year, and you would've been out."

Austin looks at me strangely, then nods once and turns to stare out the window.

"Do you have any siblings?"

Another terse nod.

"Do you speak at all?" I mentally slap myself.

Austin gives me a glare that withers any further attempts at conversation. "I can."

His twitching, which subsided when I got in the car, returns. Slightly unnerved, I sigh quietly and stare out the window for the rest of the ten–minute ride.

The driver climbs out and opens my door. Since the window is tinted black, numerous flashes of white blind me; cameras are everywhere. Accompanying them are garbled words competing for my and Austin's attention. I'm about to snap and start screaming answers when Shilo ushers us inside the train.

I'm turning my head in every direction, absorbing my last view of home.

"We have to go." There's Birdy, who appears out of nowhere. Glaring, I take a deep breath of slightly toxic District 5 air before sliding the door shut.

An announcement is made that we will arrive in the Capitol at nine o'clock tonight. Nero (Birdy) leads Austin and me to our respective rooms, telling us to be ready for lunch in an hour.

After a hot shower and a fight with the many buttons, I pull my hair into a bun and slip my dress back on. It was Ash's, before the District 4 boy impaled her throat against a tree.

Austin is in the dining compartment, plates upon plates of food piled in front of him. Chicken in orange sauce; strange orange–and–green vegetables in sauce; some creamy–looking thing; countless types of bread and spreads, and soups. He eats as soon as he touches something. Yes, 5 might not be dirt—poor, but we still go hungry occasionally. I'm relieved that he's not twitching as much.

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them: "Why do you do that?"

Austin looks at me. With food stuffed in his cheeks, he reminds me of the pictures of squirrels I've seen in school. "Do what?"

"You're so twitchy." I want to shoot myself. Not only do I come off as rude, but I might lose my chance to get Austin to ally with me.

He says nothing.

My curiosity is killing me. "What's wrong with you?"

He gives me a hard look, and before I can apologize he snaps, "It's the way I am, all right? Just like you're a nosy little girl who has a big mouth!"

Ouch. I know deep down, I deserve every word of it. His hands are vibrating so much, I get the sudden impression he's holding back from strangling me.

I'm turning to bolt when the door slides open, and Shilo and Vanth walk in.

"So. What skills do you two have?" Shilo gets right down to business. I see Vanth eyeing the exit, probably thirsting for another drink.

"I'm very clever, and stealthy and quick," I tell her.

These are all true. I can't begin to say how many times I've scared Isaac by following him around undetected.

Shilo nods. "We'll talk more about strategy later. Eat up and watch the reapings."

"Are you my mentor?"

A nod of confirmation. "You should eat," she says again. "You don't know what you'll be up against in the arena."

My stomach clenches and churns, but nevertheless I grab a plate and load it with a bit of everything. I sit across from Austin, listening to what he has to tell our mentors.

"I'm strong, and I reason things out rather than listening to my gut. I have this condition where I twitch a lot when I'm nervous."

_So that's why_, I think as I stuff meat and that creamy stuff in my mouth.

Vanth stalks out of the car.

Shilo sighs. "You two have a chance," she tells us firmly, leaving no room for argument. "More often than not, it's brains that get you further."

"But it's brawn that kills you," I blurt.

Shilo glares. No doubt she will have trouble with me. With nothing else to be said, she leaves—presumably to find Vanth.

"What's your problem?" Austin demands. But I see in his eyes that he knows I speak the truth.

"Says the guy who's as jumpy as a cat," I retort so quickly, even he knows I didn't mean to say it. It doesn't change the fact that I said it.

"Great. Out of all the possible people I could have been reaped with, it's the loudmouth," Austin says to no one in particular.

Nero bustles into the dining room. He proceeds to fuss over the food choices, and how he'll be skin and bones by the time we get to the Capitol.

"No time now," Nero says. "Let's size up your competition." He grabs a small remote and turns on the television.

Caesar Flickerman—who's hosted the Games for the last four years—leads a running commentary on the tributes. Those from 1, 2, and 4 are deadly and sadistic, no surprise. They carry themselves with an air of superiority. The 3 girl also looks snotty and arrogant; I wonder what the Careers will think of her.

And then I'm called. My comment to Nero draws some banter from Caesar and the Games announcer, Lucio Tenefield. Nero knocks over the ball and quickly grabs the slip I know has Austin's name in neat block letters. Austin continues to twitch even as we shake hands.

"Oh, my dear boy, you made all of us look bad!" Nero reminds me of the oblivious Capitol, which sees this as a literal game on which to place bets concerning who will live and whose death will be the bloodiest.

All of my fear and anger, which has been steadily bubbling, explodes. "That's coming from a man who only cares about how he looks on television! You have no morals or conscience! Austin's probably terrified of not getting an edge in the arena, and here you are worrying about your hair and makeup and how much food you see, while hapless children worry about being dead in two weeks and how to survive! Next time, think about what you're going to say, and SHUT UP!"

I glance at Austin, who looks at me with a combination of awe and fright. He's twitching again, but I no longer see that; I see a boy who's as scared as I am, and probably feels the same way I do.

"She's right." Austin comes out of his state of shock. "Other kids will be stuffing their faces in a way that makes Ampere and me look civilized, as you call yourself."

"With attitudes like that, I'm afraid you won't be making it very far."

I let out a wild scream and start to charge, but strong arms trap me in a bear hug; Austin wrestles with me as I try to rip out Nero's throat. Nero squeaks and dashes out of the room, while Austin drags me to a plush chair and pushes me down. I allow myself a small smile.

"About what I said earlier—I'm sorry."

"It's the way you are. Don't worry."

He releases me. An understanding has occurred between us.

I know I have to control myself.

He knows I'm impulsive.

I know he can't control his condition.

He knows a little about me that can be used to his advantage in the arena, if we're placed in that precarious situation in which one has to kill to live.

* * *

...

* * *

**Austin Hexson, 18 ~ District 5 Male**

**MCPBN**

...

**–About one hour before the reaping–**

I stand behind the bathroom door. I had to escape Richard's constant crying; every year on this day, he decides to have a crying fit. I guess that's a common weakness.

I do not cry. Why should I? Crying is a way to flush out the eyes. Some believe that it's part of emotion, but I highly doubt it.

When either of my siblings cry, I twitch. Right now, I watch one of my eyelids contort and flail of its own accord in the mirror. I gulp a little and sit on the toilet, waiting for the feelings to subside. _Curse you, Rick!_ I think as my eye continues to twitch.

It's not really Rick that does this to me. He's only eleven. It's something as old as time: I have Tourette's syndrome, the only setback of my body. I look at the mirror again. My blonde hair, green eyes, and slim body make me pretty handsome—in a nerdy sort of way due to my glasses.

My twitching (or what is usually called 'tics') stops, and my gulping subsides. I straighten my glasses and return to the main room.

Sally, my fourteen–year–old sister, sits on Rick's bed, holding him close to her. She's grown older than her years ever since Mother and Father died. I, on the other hand, will always be the weird big brother who spends all his time at work and reading about boring stuff. _Stop, or you'll start twitching again!_

Sally turns and gives me a grim smile. I smile back, and sit next to them.

"Hey, Rick, why are you crying?" I know the reason, but asking may help him to get it out of his system.

Rick cries a little more, and then says with a quiver in his voice, "Because you both might be picked, and I'd be by myself." He begins to cry again.

"Hey, the odds of both of us being picked are very slim. And if one of us is, we'll make it back," Sally says. "Austin is really smart, he'd be bound to get out, and I'm a pretty good fighter; you saw me punch that girl."

Rick nods. He's stopped crying.

I sigh and smile at Sally.

"Now come on," I say. "We have a lot to do before we can get going. Take your clothes and get dressed, okay?"

Rick rubs his eyes and grabs his clothes, before entering the bathroom.

"Next year is going to be terrible," Sally says, pointing to the bathroom.

I nod. "Well, I suspect he may feel a little more at peace since he can also be picked." Sally looks at me. "It's a theory."

"Yeah, nerd, go make some electricity, or whatever you do." She gives me a push so she can pass. She has a stocky build, and can beat up the biggest guy in school if she had a mind. Theoretically anyway.

"I actually have to work on the lighting in here when we get back," I say, looking up. On cue, the light flickers. I frown, and run to my room to get ready.

**...**

**–The reaping–**

We have to pass one of the nuclear power plants to get to the Justice Building. My eyelids convulse, and I stop and press my hands to my eyes. The others were too young, but I remember the day our parents—they died from a lab experiment gone wrong in there. I don't know why I have this kind of reaction, but I do. The gulping noises begin; I shake my head, but they continue for a long moment.

"Austin, calm down," Sally says. "Come on, keep walking."

I breathe deeply. In some ways, I feel like Sally is eighteen and I'm fourteen. I wish I could wish it away, but of course that'd be defying nature and logic.

…

Sally leaves Rick with her friend's family, and we proceed to the check–in line. I let one of the Peacekeepers prick my finger. They place the blood on a piece of paper, and scan it. My name pops up, and my age, and they tell me to continue into the roped–off area.

Sally stands across the small path that leads to the Justice Building, and a little ways back. She looks at me. Under all her tough talk I can tell she's scared. Luckily, I trained myself out of that.

We hear the anthem of Panem begin to play, and the doors to the Justice Building slide open. Out walks Nero Adarwoods—the Capitol man that reads the names of the tributes and acts as a sort of chaperone—in a red outfit and shaved dark blue hair.

Our Mayor and a few District 5 dignitaries, including the victors Vanth and Shilo, follow closely. They all take a seat behind the microphone and two glass balls holding the names.

Nero walks to the mic. "Gr–greetings, District F–Five. I hope you are all d–doing well. Well, l–let me begin by introdu–introducing your Mayor."

The Mayor reads the Treaty of Treason. Why do I need to hear something that I've already memorized? Every year, he drones on and on, and I feel like walking up there and reading it myself. Of course, I wouldn't; 'impulsive' is a word that I try to avoid being said with my name in the same sentence.

After the Mayor finishes, Nero says, "Now, t–to commence with the ceremonies. Ladies first!"

Nero goes to the ball with the girls' names, and wiggles his fingers over the top. I glare at Sally, wishing that she'd disappear. He picks a name from the middle of the ball, struts back to the podium, and clears his throat. "Ampere Henry!"

I let out a deep sigh in relief. I turn, and see Sally smile at me and wink. I nod at her.

A girl who must be Ampere emerges. I see her face for a second, but it's long enough to recognize the girl who was almost beaten to death three years ago. She is the definition of impulsiveness. I feel sorry for the poor boy picked to go with her; I fear that if he says the wrong thing, she may pounce on him.

Ampere climbs the stairs with her head held high. I have to give her credit. A few years ago, there was a girl who broke down crying. The Peacekeepers had to drag her up. Needless to say, she didn't last long.

Nero leads her to stand on his left. He calls for applause, then says, "And now, on to the boys!" I grip my hands together to keep them from flying out and hitting someone. My eyes twitch, and I close them, trying to remember how to breathe.

I hear Nero's feet echoing across the stage—and suddenly a crash. My eyes fly open.

Nero has accidentally tipped the ball over and shattered it, and the papers are flying everywhere. His face flushes a deep red. He snatches a paper off the floor and opens it; "Austin Hexson!"

I immediately move towards the stage like some type of force is leading me. I stand tall, but my Tourette's tics out of control. I grip my pants on either side, trying to stop my eyelids from twitching so violently; my gulps start. I wish I could run to the power plant, and work in my own little corner.

Nero leads me to stand to his right. I look over the crowd, trying to find Rick. He's looking straight at me, obviously blinking back tears. I try and smile at him, but he averts his eyes. So do I.

When I do, I notice that Ampere has trained her eyes on me. I know she's curious about my tics. I sigh inwardly. This will be great.

Ampere looks away, but my hand shoots out to the side and she is staring at me again. She thinks I'm a freak, like everyone else. Only my siblings and professors will ever understand me. I am not a freak!

...

We're led into the Justice Building. I am placed in a room with a chair and one window. I've never had anyone I've known go to the Hunger Games, so I don't know what's about to happen—although I figure that I'm going to be able to say goodbye to my family. I fix my glasses while I wait.

I look at my glasses. They were my father's. When he died, I took these and put my prescription in them. I guess they can be a type of token.

Sally and Rick are pushed in. They run over and embrace me. Although I've never been one to show physical affection, I hug them back.

I then pull away. "Sally, you and Rick need to go back to the community home. I know that it wasn't that great there, but I doubt they'll let you stay at our apartment anymore. Don't take any tesserae. And—"

Sally cuts me off. "I know what needs to be done. You'll be back soon, and then we'll be fine."

I look at her grimly. I don't have much skill in weapons, and I'm not a good fighter. The odds are against me.

I nod. Then Rick hugs me. I kneel so I can look at him eye–to–eye.

"I promise I'll try, OK?" He nods.

We are all hugging when the Peacekeepers come to drag them out. The door shuts, and I have to sit, since not only have my tics kicked in, but I also feel weak in the knees.

I don't have friends, but I had hoped one of my professors would come; I have an above–average IQ, and the children at school thought I was weird, so I only really got close to them.

At age fourteen I passed the graduation test, and got to work as an apprentice in a power plant. When I turned sixteen, I was allowed to live with my siblings in an apartment.

Now I wish I had some friends—someone who would remember me besides my brother and sister. It's too late. I've always been forgotten by passerby, and now I'll be forgotten forever.

...

I am led to a car.

A few minutes later, Ampere is escorted to the seat next to mine. She looks at me, then out her window. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I mean—one more year, and you would've been out." (I give her a 'I–could–care–less' look, and return to gazing out of my window.) "Do you have any siblings?" (I nod.) "How many?" (I hold two fingers up.) "Are you the oldest?" (I again nod.) "Can you talk at all?"

I give her a steely glare before replying, "I can."

"How old are your parents?"

I feel like I'm about to explode.

She goes silent.

When we get to the train, Nero opens the door to a room with three or four tables of food. On the far end, there is a seating area. A chandelier dangles from the roof.

I immediately fill a plate. They all probably think I'm starving, but although District 5 does have its hardships I have an ulterior motive: I can usually stop my tics if I do other things, like eat or work with my hands.

The food is succulent. As I take another bite, I hear Ampere behind me. "Why do you do that?"

I turn to her. "Do what?"

"You're so twitchy." Can't anyone ever see past my tics? Why is it something people want to analyze? "What's wrong with you?"

I wait a few more seconds before responding. "It's the way I am, all right? Just like you're a nosy little girl who has a big mouth!" I don't shout, which I think makes her even more afraid. She looks at me like I'm a psycho.

At that point, Vanth and Shilo walk in. I sigh and sit down. Shilo talks, but I ignore her and say that I don't have weapons training.

Ampere questions her, and Shilo gets annoyed. I glare, but Ampere doesn't get the hint.

"What's your problem?"

"Says the guy who's as jumpy as a cat."

I've decided that I don't like Ampere. I turn away and say to myself out loud, "Great. Out of all the possible people I could have been reaped with, it's the loudmouth."

Nero fusses about how he can't find any good food, and turns the television on. We watch the reapings flash by.

I don't see anything different than usual: cocky Careers and scared children. When it gets to us, I realize my tics were very easy to notice.

Nero shakes his head. "Oh, my dear boy, you made all of us look bad!"

"That's coming from a man who only cares about how he looks on television! You have no morals or conscience!" I slap my head against my palm. _Oh, boy_. "Austin's probably terrified of not getting an edge in the arena, and here you are worrying about your hair and makeup and how much food you see, while hapless children worry about being dead in two weeks and how to survive! Next time, think about what you're going to say, and SHUT UP!"

I'm shocked, and for a moment upset that she said I was scared—but it's true. "She's right. Other kids will be stuffing their faces in a way that makes Ampere and me look civilized, as you call yourself." I see her in a different way. Yes, she's rather impulsive and quick to anger, but she is as scared as I am.

Nero looks from Ampere to me. "With attitudes like that, I'm afraid you won't be making it very far."

Ampere's face grows red with anger, and I jump up and pull her away from him. Nero flees the room.

I drag her to a chair and force her into it, placing a hand on each armrest to hold her there. She calms after a minute, and I slowly stand.

She looks up into my eyes. "About what I said earlier—I'm sorry."

"It's the way you are," I reply. "Don't worry."

She nods, and we stay in the room with our own thoughts while the world flies by outside the windows.


	7. District 6 Reaping

**Esmeralda Northwood, 16 ~ District 6 Female**

**JuneTwentieth**

"Wake _uuup_," Lisa says sweetly.

The lights are colorful and too bright, and. . .why are they swirling? This is what I get for drinking too much on the night before—

I sit up, stunned, as my sister dumps a bucket full of ice water on me. _Extreme much? _Lisa is always extreme, but I'm too busy scowling to care.

_No, no, you're supposed to smile. _I don't want to leave the house with the entire public going: 'Ew. Who is that unpleasant, scowling girl?'

"What was that for?"

Lisa giggles, too shrill. I slide back under the covers. Stupid high noises; my head is throbbing. Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes.

"You're going to be late," she says, dragging the covers off.

"Go away."

"That's not very friendly." Her face contorts into something resembling a pout. I can't really tell: my vision is blurred. The lights have only slightly dimmed. "Come on." She tries to drag me out the door.

I slide across the floor because of the water, making high squeaky sounds—

Water. More water.

And it's damn cold.

"This. Is. Not. Real. DO WE LIVE IN A CARTOON? Where do all these buckets of ice water come from?!"

"Just in case you weren't entirely awake," Lisa answers, batting her eyelashes.

She manages to get me into a standing position, even if it still looks like a drooping scarecrow. "Rise and shine, Esme! Turn that frown upside doooown!"

I hear a door opening.

"Uh, Lissy? Mind if you keep it down?" My brother, Kyle. Of course he has _no concern_ for my welfare.

"It's _Lisette_!" Lisa snaps.

I have no idea why she gets so worked up over not being called her real name. According to her, it makes her seem more angelic. Or something.

Then Lisa regains her composure, though I can hear her breathing heavily. "Ky', we barely even see each other because you're always working with that pesky business. So at least be nice."

"That's logical," Kyle replies dryly. "Hey, Esme, assuming you're awake. Have fun or something."

My brother has just encountered his first year of ineligibility for the Hunger Games. Me, not so much—I'm sixteen; Lisa's thirteen. I don't believe for a second either of us will get reaped, but _have fun or something_ is not the kind of comment I'm a fan of. Actually, I'm not a fan of Kyle's comments in general.

"Smile!"

Lisa helps me toward the dining room, and I move like I'm eighty. For a moment, I see her change into a walker and back. Ugh. I'm being too. . .imaginative.

I finally force a smile, though when I see myself in the bathroom mirror it looks hysterical.

However, hysterical smiles aren't my least attractive feature at the moment.

"Good," Lisa says, practically holding my hands as I turn on the faucet. Then I remember that I received two buckets of ice water to the face, and wonder why I need to wash myself. So I turn off the faucet.

Lisa skips about, looking perfect with her adorable blond braid in comparison to my curly (well, it's supposed to be curly, but last night's incident made it more like I've been electrocuted) black mess. She does seem like an angel right then, when I have shadows under my eyes and makeup smudged in random places.

I brush my teeth and realise I'm already fully dressed (in what I was wearing at the party). How did I get home, anyway?

There's a memory of being driven by one of my friends—probably Emma; I think she decided it's her job to get me home safely when necessary. . .which, sadly enough, is a lot. I almost feel guilty for burdening her.

Needless to say, my outfit looks. . .indecent. Was I already drunk when I chose it? Even by my standards it's bad.

Since when do I own this?

Maybe I don't own it. For all I know, someone persuaded me to wear it on a dare.

I nearly choke on my toothpaste, and rinse immediately.

"Wow, that's an awfully long time for you not to say anything," Lisa chirps, opening the door for me and making a mock—curtsy. "I bet you've had a _super_ deep inner monologue."

Super. Care to hear?

"You look half–dead," Dad comments as I step into the living room, trying to bounce along the way I usually do.

He throws his head back in a motion that looks more like he's going to have a shot than anything else, and laughs. _Like a dolphin_, I think hazily.

Lisa laughs right along with him, but she turns to me and rolls her eyes. Dear ol' Dad.

I hear Kyle come downstairs, and promptly register the fact that there are stairs and I have made it down them without falling. Awesome.

By the time Mom's handed me scrambled eggs, I feel far more alert. This is actually because I almost choke on them too; two buckets of ice water and two near–choking incidents in about half an hour. Before the reaping. And guess how fun the reaping is?

"So, dear," Mom says, turning her attention to Lisa. "How do you feel about your second year of eligibility?"

Lisa rolls her eyes again. "Who _cares_? Not like anything will happen. I love the outfit, though."

I think she hates the outfit: a frilly pink dress that's so long it touches the floor. She's thirteen, Mom—she's not going to start wearing anything _that_ short yet!

Then again, maybe she'll do it just to watch people stare. I don't put it past her. Attention–hogging little kid. Not that I mind, since I must look awful and don't want Mom to scold me for 'not thinking of the consequences'.

"So," Kyle says conversationally, as he adjusts his tie. "How's Isabel doing?"

"Just fine," I reply.

Last I checked he has a crush on her, which probably isn't good. Isabel has some issues with long–term commitment; Lisa likes to put it as, "she's an evil player who's fond of stomping on people's hearts".

"Good." He looks impassive. "Come to the reaping with me, Lis—_Lisette_?"

I sigh. No one ever seems to pay attention to me; it's always Lisa on their minds. Still, she deserves it.

"No, thank you," she tells him. "I'm coming with Esme and her friends."

"What? No!" I snap, then immediately cover my mouth at her hurt look. "I'm so sorry! But. . ."

She sniffles, though at this point I don't know whether she's faking or not. I feel guilty anyway as she asks, "You think Isabel and the rest don't want me around?"

"I. . ."

"Oh, no," Mom interrupts. "Honey, I refuse for you to be around Esme's friends! They say all these obscene things, and they're far too—"

_Obscene_? I feel vaguely puzzled.

Well, Isabel tends to be gossipy about who sleeps with whom, I guess. And occasionally she and her brother Bryce let fly some colorful language.

Jay and Emma are just fine, though Emma's kind of bossy and Jay says about a sentence a day.

"Mommy!" Lisa whines, a name she only seems to be use when she wants something (which is a lot). "I'm sure they're excellent people!"

_Deep, deep down,_ I think, trying not to laugh.

I see Kyle darting for the door, and I follow while Lisa and Mom are arguing. Dad is unable to choose between his wife and his youngest daughter.

"So," Kyle says. "Your friends are obscene?"

"No."

I try not to sound frustrated. I don't know why I bother with him; he always tries to infuriate me. I bet that the neat freak he is, he has a notebook where he writes down every scenario in existence and what remarks he could make.

I add as an afterthought, "I doubt you think Isabel's anywhere _near_ obscene."

"Aw," a voice interrupts. "How sweet of you, Kyle!"

For about a millisecond, Kyle looks like a dear in headlights as he faces Isabel. The rest of my friends are hanging behind her like she's their leader. I suppose she would be, but Emma would rather break a rule (gasp!) than ever be led by her.

Then Kyle relaxes, that cool, unperturbed look I know so well back on his face. "Thanks, but I have to leave now."

Isabel smirks ever—so—slightly. "You're welcome. I hope you have a very nice day. . .and night."

He doesn't reply.

Isabel turns to me, letting me fully appreciate/be jealous of her. Despite that she was at the party with me, she looks amazing: auburn hair curled to perfection, green eyes much prettier than mine, and the red dress she wore last year at graduation. What with the lower class's poverty issues, she's like a model next to them.

"Have a fun time yesterday?" she asks, still in that sweet tone. It reminds me of Lisa's, but...overdone.

Too much analyzation. Headache.

I smile. "Yeah!" She smiles back.

"No, she didn't," Emma snaps. "It was _awful_. Some random guy I've never seen was flirting with her. I don't know why you went to Cassia's party; she's the rudest person I know. Or maybe that's you, since you have _no concern for Esme_."

I frown, dimly recalling the guy. Oh yeah. I think I threw a book at him, though. He's not my type.

"Lighten up, Emmie darling," Isabel responds. Emma opens her mouth, outraged, but Isabel offers me a grocery bag. I peek inside and see it's full of candy. "Here—to make up for any trouble you ran into. We can all share! It's to celebrate not getting reaped."

This seems oddly festive for Isabel. She gives us expensive gifts most of the time, but whatever. I love candy.

"We don't know whether we'll get reaped," Jay points out. I don't remember why he's my friend except that he's Emma's ex. I don't mind him, but he's. . ._boring_.

Bryce laughs. "You're kidding, right?" He grabs a few peppermints and drops one into my palm as we head for the square. "Maybe they'll be a painkiller," he informs me.

"Shut up," I say, smiling even as Emma starts telling Isabel how unhealthy candy is.

...

When we arrive at the square, Emma crossly joins me in line. She's muttering all sorts of things about Isabel. They never get along, but Emma's been my best friend since childhood and I don't want to leave her.

"Finger," the Peacekeeper orders.

I hesitate. It's not like it hurts that much, but it's still painful.

"Finger," the Peacekeeper repeats, annoyed. "Oh, another squeamish one?" He snorts and grabs my finger before I can react; I feel a brief flash of pain as the needle pierces my skin. He pulls away.

I glare, even though he's not looking at me as he waves Emma forward, and stomp away—but not before throwing my peppermint wrapper at him. It drifts to the ground.

Emma joins me, surprisingly sympathetic as she pats my arm. I smile at her, my brief fit of temper forgotten; there's no point in holding grudges.

"Welcome to the reaping," the escort—a guy named Zeus Halls—says, catching my attention, if only because of the lightning bolt–shaped hair he possesses. "Today, two lucky people will get the honor of representing District Six in the Thirty–eighth annual Hunger Games!"

I think the elaborate speeches and such that go on during the reaping are so boring, I look for Isabel. She's eighteen (so I don't think she's anywhere near me), but Emma refuses to say anything during the speeches, unlike her.

Instead, I find Lisa. Or rather, she finds _me_, weaving through the crowd with a grace I'd never accomplish, even though the headache's subsiding. Of course she wouldn't care about staying in her section.

"The thirteen–year–olds are _so_ boring," Lisa tells me, eyeing the peppermint I'm holding. I hand it to her, and she pops it in her mouth. "All they talk about," she says around the peppermint, "is all this school gossip."

I remember Lisa speaking disdainfully of several classmates on more than a few occasions, but let it slide. She waves and flits away before anyone can catch her.

The escort finally gets to the point, which I only notice after Emma none–too–gently nudges me in the ribs. Zeus walks to the glass balls that hold everyone's names.

"Let's start with the ladies!"

I've never taken tesserae, and I definitely don't need to. None of my friends take tesserae either. I wonder what poor little orphan will get reaped this year.

"Esmeralda Northwood!"

Hm. That's really similar to my name. I wonder who shares—

Wait.

No.

No, it's just someone else.

Nonononononononono.

"_No_!"

"Esme," Emma whispers, guiding me to the aisle. Her grip hurts, nails sinking in. The pain is real.

Somehow I find myself onstage. I'm not sure how I got there, but Emma waves and makes a sound that's halfway between a hysterical laugh and choked sob. I watch her intently as she walks back to our section, trying to hold her head high, and I'm focusing on something—anything—else.

I almost miss Zeus saying, "Now for the gentlemen!"

A boy named Hector Soto is called, and I barely notice anything about him except that he looks like he's around Lisa's age.

Lisa. Kyle. Where are they?

"Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes from District Six!" Zeus declares, gesturing at us. "Esmeralda Northwood and Hector Soto!"

No. _Esme_.

We shake hands at some point, and I'm escorted into the Justice Building by nameless, faceless Peacekeepers.

And I wait.

I don't let myself dwell on it; I just _wait_.

My family comes in first. _Of course_, I think, as Mother makes tearful promises — (but what can she promise?) — and Dad stands awkwardly in a corner, only coming forth to give me a stiff one–armed hug and whisper, "Good luck."

Lisa offers the half of her peppermint that's still left, but I decline.

Her eyes are shining when she says, "Kill them. _All_ of them. It's your only choice."

She's quiet when I don't respond.

Kyle eyes Lisa warily. I don't feel anything, though. It's a bit late for that. He turns to me and says, "You know, it's true." He pauses. "But don't take that choice." (Oh. Wow. My brother is being moralistic. And philosophical.) Lisa stares at him. "There's better ways, even if you don't win."

...

My friends aren't silent like my dad. At all.

Isabel is first to speak, naturally. "Esme, honey, I'm so sorry. I really am. It's awful." Her expression is sympathetic, maybe too much, but I've never been good at reading people. "Let's get real—your chances of coming home are slim."

I recoil, even though I know it's true.

"I'm sorry," Isabel says again.

_You could do so much better,_ I think. _You could be with every popular person in the district, yet you choose me, and Emma (who you don't even like) and her ex. And your brother._ It's not especially relevant, but there must be some good in Isabel, no matter what Emma thinks.

Right on cue, Emma snaps, "No, you're not! _Stop being all charming._ You enjoy watching her worship you, don't you? You weren't the one helping her on the stage. You didn't drag her home from a dozen parties when she was dead on her feet. You—your _sweet_ words, they're only words." She's breathing hard as Isabel blinks.

"Emma, what are you talking about? I'd never do that."

I look at both of them, and Emma stands. "No. Esme, I can't do this anymore. I love you—when you're not around _her_. You're dying, and I don't want this to end on a sour note, but I want you to know I'm not going to stay with this _witch_!" She seems to hesitate as she stares at me—then she marches out.

I blink, more confused than hurt. _There's nothing wrong with Isabel,_ I want to tell her. _Emma, no—you're being prejudiced!_

Isabel follows Emma, whispering something into Bryce's ear as she passes by. For a few seconds, everything is silent.

The hurt sinks in.

_Emma thinks I'm going to die. She won't accept me._

Bryce sits beside me. He drops another peppermint into my hand. (Is he ever going to run out of them?) "Remember," he says. No, not _says_; it's a question.

_Remember what?_ I think hazily. The only thing I remember is that Emma is leaving, and so am I.

"When we were little," he presses upon seeing my blank expression. "The first time I met you, you were handing out peppermints to everyone because you didn't like them. We were four."

I don't. Why would I ever dislike a peppermint?

"You met Emma a year later," Bryce continues. I find it odd that he's talking about this, since he rarely dwells on the past. But I guess with me going to the Games and all, we might as well go over what we went through. "You always played with us separately; she didn't like me, or me her." I nod.

_But not as much as she hates Isabel._

"Then my sister, when you were twelve. You liked her right away."

"Why not? She's sweet, she's beautiful, she's smart."

Bryce laughs. "That's not the point."

"What's the point?" I demand.

Time is ticking. I'm not leaving this room more confused than when I entered.

"You and me," Bryce replies. "And what we were."

I'm not sure what he means, but he squeezes my hand—an ancient gesture that signifies nothing and everything—and leaves.

Then, finally, Jay.

Jay is nothing compared to my other friends. I wonder why he would bother saying goodbye. "You're quite thick at times, Esmeralda," he says dryly.

Esmeralda. Never Esme.

He isn't looking at me as he adds, "I'll spell it out for you: he _likes_ you."

I don't think I'll reach my goal of leaving less confused than before. Why would Bryce like me? We're just friends.

"Time's up," a voice tells Jay as the door opens.

Jay stands. "Good luck. I don't hate you, Esmeralda, but you need to sort out a lot of things."

"What things?" I ask, just before I see he's gone.

A voice in my mind snips, 'Isabel. Emma. Lisa. Those things.'

They aren't _things_! How do I resolve them? I'm kind of busy being a tribute.

...

A Peacekeeper escorts me into a car, and I'm taken to the train station.

A sleek silver train—like the ones Dad and Kyle have in the factory—awaits me. I'm even more impressed by the inside: crystal chandeliers, soft velvet seats, and food.

Everywhere food. Isabel's acquaintance who held the party yesterday (Casey? Cara? Cassia?) could have a thousand parties with all this. The lower class would have a _feast_.

Food reminds me I still have a peppermint clutched in my palm. I don't want to eat it here, so insignificant.

I guess it can be my tribute token. Assuming that food is allowed as a token. Screw the rules; it's a peppermint, I'm keeping it. It's not like I'm going to try choking someone with it.

I'm about to start picking what to eat when I remember that I have a district partner. I find him sitting alone, not looking for the escort or a mentor or anything. He has curly red hair and dark eyes, and he's holding a ribbon. Upon closer inspection, he bears very little resemblance to Lisa.

I feel sort of sorry for him, so I chirp: "Hi! What's that? It's a really nice ribbon."

Hector hesitates, and I frown, wondering if I said anything bad. Maybe asking what it is was a stupid question, since I know it's a ribbon.

"It's my sister's," he replies.

"Aw!" I bounce about cheerfully, picking up a snack in the process. With my mouth full, I tell him, "I have a sister too. I gave her a peppermint during the reaping. What's your sister like?"

"Her name's Cassandra, she's nine. We call her 'Cass'. She's. . .she's nice to everyone, I guess, and she likes to read."

"That's so _cuuute_!"

Lisa finds books utterly useless. I agree—what's the point in them? It's not as if they actually happen, with the exception of those boring scientific books by Capitolites, and a bunch of biographies.

Hector doesn't respond as I continue eating. I don't like awkward silences.

"I've never been on a train before, which is weird, since we're from the transportation district."

Hector smiles a little. "Yeah, I guess it is."

I smile back. "I bet my brother's ridden one before, though." If he rides a train like this _without_ being sent to fight to the death, he's pretty lucky. "Ugh. He's no fun. Anyway, how do you feel?"

Hector's smile vanishes. "Fantastic."

"Awesome!" I say, tempted to hug him. He seems like he needs one. Hmm.

I'm distracted when I spot a huge chocolate cake on a nearby table. It appears to be four or five layers, and the frosting is designed to look like it's swirling. Oh, wow.

I can't resist hurrying toward it and taking a slice, maybe two.

I don't notice my partner's silence. _Cake._ I let my memories go as I eat.

My friends, my family, my life.

I hope they don't come back. I want to live in this moment forever, even as I see trees blurring and know I can't escape the Games.

I push that thought away.

* * *

...

* * *

**Hector Soto, 14 ~ District 6 Male**

**Kate–the–Great–and–Powerful**

"Hector?" There's a click as the lamp on my bedside table turns on.

I blink a few times, but the only things I see are blurred colors and the fuzzy silhouette of the voice's owner. I sit up and reach for my glasses. My younger sister is sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at me.

"What is it?" I ask her. "Bad dream?"

"About the reaping," she says.

"You're nine, Cassie. They won't pick you; they can't, not until you're—" I decide to leave that part out.

"But I wasn't."

...

Cass is sitting at the table when I walk in, bent over an open book that lies beside her bowl of oatmeal. She's already dressed for the reaping. Mother, who is tying my sister's hair with a green ribbon, smiles at me as I take my seat.

There's another expression hiding behind her untroubled calmness: grief. She doesn't talk about her brother much, but Cass and I know enough. The anniversary of his death in the Games is in a few days; he was eighteen, killed on Day Two by the girl from District 4.

…

Sometimes, time flies whether you like it or not—before I know it, it's time to head to the square. My parents wish me luck, and I get a hug from Cass. I have fifteen slips of paper in the reaping ball this year. I shouldn't worry, because plenty of people in District 6 have more. Much more.

I can't help but worry anyway.

Families are gathering. The ones who no longer care and don't have anyone to lose stand on the edges, talking with each other or betting on who will be reaped.

The registration line moves quickly, and soon I'm at the front. A Peacekeeper pricks my finger, verifying that I am who I say I am. As if I'd try to run. Someone tried that a few years ago; it didn't turn out the way they'd probably hoped.

I walk to the very middle of the crowd, where the fourteen–year–olds are supposed to stand.

They do it the same way every year: older kids in the front, younger in the back. Maybe it's for convenience; the eighteen–year–olds generally have the most slips. They won't have to walk a long distance, and the reaping ceremony will continue with time to spare. It's unnerving how everything is meticulously planned.

Then again, it could be ran—

"Hey, Hector!" says a loud voice in my ear. I jump, and turn to see Ajax next to me, smiling triumphantly.

"Hey," I say flatly.

The smile drops from my friend's face. "What's the matter?" he asks. "Not enjoying your holiday like the rest of us?"

Sarcasm. I laugh. "I'd rather be at school."

"Of course you'd rather be at school!"

"Ah, shut up."

Ajax grins and opens his mouth to reply, but he's interrupted by a booming voice echoing across the square, likely deafening a few of the eighteen–year–olds. They can't get a break, can they? At least they have the safety of ineligibility to look forward to, while the rest of us farther back in the crowd—whose eardrums have remained intact—have a long way to go.

"Welcome to the reaping!" exclaims Zeus Halls, our district's Capitol escort. He's wearing the same yellow suit as last year, with that strange lightning–bolt hairstyle. Sometimes I wonder how Capitolite fashion escalated, while the districts wear nearly the same styles of clothes we always have. I guess it comes with having the time and money to create these trends. "Today, two lucky people will get the honor of representing District Six in the Thirty–eighth annual Hunger Games!" Their definitions of 'lucky' and 'honor' are different from mine.

"Let's start with the ladies!" Zeus walks to the girls' reaping ball. He takes a moment, and pulls one out from the very bottom. "Esmeralda Northwood!"

After a moment, a shocked girl with curly dark hair comes forward from the sixteen–year–old section, led by someone. She's one of District 6's upper class. She walks slowly to the stage, where the other girl turns and heads back to her section.

Esmeralda stands next to Zeus, who gives her what is supposed to be a reassuring pat on the back. She doesn't look reassured.

"Now for the gentlemen!"

I watch as he crosses the stage again and buries his arm in the boys' reaping ball. He digs through papers, oblivious to the people waiting for him, all holding their breaths. Finally, he chooses one.

"Hector Soto!" Zeus shouts.

He said my name. I freeze.

Suddenly, everyone I know stares at me. It doesn't matter whether they know me as Hector, as Priam and Hecuba's son, as Cassandra's brother, or even just as someone from school; they're all thinking the same thing—I am going to die.

They have cleared a path for me, so I take it.

I climb the steps, and stand next to Esmeralda. She's taller than me. In the back of my mind, I wonder what the people in the Capitol are seeing in us. Promising competitors? Unlikely.

I shake her hand. She isn't looking at me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes from District Six!" Zeus exclaims. "Esmeralda Northwood and Hector Soto!"

No one applauds.

No one makes a sound as we are led into the Justice Building.

...

The goodbyes pass faster than the morning; all in a blur, the way they'd be if I took off my glasses. I remember attempting to laugh at Ajax's jokes. Telling my parents I'd try to make it. Cass realizing I didn't have a token, and giving me her hair ribbon to bring to the Capitol.

I stare at my hand, as if the green ribbon will somehow be able to get me back home. Normally, I'd be excited to have a chance at riding in a car. But I don't even look out the window.

Later, the black car is exchanged for a train. Not a cargo train, like the ones my father helps to build—a passenger train. Sleek, grey, and incredibly fast.

…

"Hi! What's that? It's a really nice ribbon."

My head snaps up. My district partner is right in front of me.

I hesitate before answering. "It's my sister's."

"Aw!" Esmeralda practically bounces to the snack table. "I have a sister too. I gave her a peppermint during the reaping. What's your sister like?"

I stare. How can she be so lighthearted, so cheerful, so…so happy when we're being sent to our deaths?

I don't ask that.

"Her name's Cassandra," I tell her. "She's nine. We call her 'Cass'. She's…she's nice to everyone, I guess, and she likes to read."

"That's so _cuuute_!" Esmeralda gushes. (I flinch. I might never see Cass again. My grip tightens on the ribbon.) "I've never been on a train before," she remarks after a short silence. She picks up another treat from the snack table. "Which is weird, since we're from the transportation district."

"Yeah, I guess it is." I smile a little despite myself.

Esmeralda beams. "I bet my brother's ridden one before, though," she says. "Ugh. He's no fun. Anyway, how do you feel?"

Well, I don't feel like smiling anymore.

"Fantastic."

Esmeralda doesn't quite pick up my sarcasm. "Awesome!"

After that, an enormous chocolate cake distracts her. I'm not hungry, and I don't feel like searching the train for our escort or mentors. So I look out the window, hoping to catch a last glimpse.

It's too late. District 6 is already behind us.


	8. District 7 Reaping

**Andra Chane, 12 ~ District 7 Female**

**fulvenia**

Eliza and I used to talk a lot about birds. We loved them. They were memories of the time we spent together.

One day when we were young, Eliza snapped her fingers with a brilliant idea, and yanked me close so she could whisper in my ear. "I'm going to make houses for the birds. Are you coming?"

I did. And every day after that, I did, planning and working and talking about birds. I liked watching them feed from the birdhouses; it made me feel like I was helping them. I saw them so many times every day, roaming under and over and beyond the clouds. They kept my mind off of things I didn't want to think about.

Things like today.

We all live near the woods—the both of us, and Mama and Daddy.

Normally, Daddy and Eliza finish cutting down the giant trees by our house right before noon, and then make their way home after gathering a little pouch of money from the rich furniture builder in town. But today is special: it is nine in the morning when I wake up, and Mama tells me that they're coming home earlier.

This would be delightful—to see Eliza sooner, so we can head off to a different part of the woods where everything is quiet and no one can hear us. But we can't do that. They'd kill us if we missed the reaping.

"I laid a dress out for you," Mama tells me, after I refuse to get out of bed immediately. She watches me with a sad, grownup look. "It was in a box full of my old things. I think you'll like it."

I'm sure she thinks I'm scared—of the reaping, the tributes, the Capitol. She thinks a little girl like me shouldn't go near things I don't understand, or talk about things I don't like.

Today I am twelve, and my name has been written on a slip of paper and dropped into a glass ball, awaiting the dangling colored talons of our district's escort, Rhinestone Magenta. If my name is read off the chosen slip, then I'll be forced to step out of the crowd of children, away from Hana and my family and off to the big, bright city we always gossip about. I don't think I'll ever see them again.

So yes, when Mama looks at me with an expression that makes me feel five years younger, I agree with her. I am scared.

Finally, I throw aside my covers, slip into the frilly green dress, grab my pencils, and think about birds as I head to the kitchen.

When I seat myself at the table with a pad of paper and the pencils, I look over to the sink and notice my mother hard at work. She runs past me and fixes something in the living room, then hurries back to the open tap. I watch her curiously. She seems a lot tenser than usual; she scrubs each plate three times, and keeps rearranging the picture frames on the wooden shelf by the door. I consider helping her, but I'm worried she might snap at me. Or ignore me.

So I stay where I am, at the table. I have a design to finish. After the reaping, Eliza and I have to head straight for the forest. We've been working on a special birdhouse for weeks, and it's nearly done; I need to plan out how we should hang it.

I've only just completed my drawing when Mama pulls a seat in front of me. She reaches across the table for my hand, and squeezes it.

"Andra," she whispers. She has bags under her eyes, and her hair is tied in a messy bun. I'm worried about her, but I don't tell her; she doesn't need more to take care of. "You aren't worried, are you, dear? There's nothing to be afraid of. It will be over before you know it."

"I'm worried I might get picked," I answer.

"Oh, sweetheart, you have nothing to worry about," she repeats. I'm starting to wonder whether the obsessive cleaning is getting to her head. "I'm sure they won't pick you. There are hundreds of names in that bowl, and why—only one of them is yours!"

"I know."

She smiles. "You know I love you, dear."

"I love you too, Mama."

The front door bursts open.

"Oh, you're acting as if she's got this bubble around her that protects her from harm!" Eliza marches into the house, slamming a cloth pouch on the kitchen counter.

Daddy saunters in, his hat in one hand, the other running through his greying hair.

"I said nothing of the sort," he exhales.

He's dressed in a thick jacket, overalls, and heavy boots. Despite the chill in the air, he appears to be sweating.

Mama jumps out of her chair and hurries to the door.

I wait in my seat. This argument might take a while.

"How was work?" Mama asks, taking Daddy's hat as he sinks into the worn–out couch by the fireplace.

"It was fine and dandy," Eliza replies for him. She's dressed identical to Daddy (except for the large axe hanging from her overalls belt), leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed over her chest. "Papa wouldn't stop droning on and on about how great tonight's dinner will be."

"Well, I should hope so." Mama smiles, but I don't see it reach her eyes. She's back to the picture frames again, arranging and rearranging. "I made pea soup."

"You're both missing the point!" Eliza throws her hands in the air. "We have a reaping to go to in half an hour, where your own daughter's chance of being chosen has just grown!"

Daddy rubs his eyes and sighs. "Her chances are so tiny, we shouldn't even be worrying."

"So you don't _care_?"

"I don't need to get lectured on parenting by my own daughter, thank you."

"I beg to differ," grunts Eliza. She unbuckles her belt and hauls the axe to the door, where she leans it against a wall. "And if she is chosen, how do you think she'll prepare? She can hardly wield an axe!"

"You're taking this too far, Elizabeth Chane," Mama says. "I don't want this discussed any further."

"This _should_ be discussed further. In fact, why don't we hear from the shining queen herself?" Eliza sits next to me. I'm intently focused on my design, but of course, I can hear every word. "You know what happens at the reapings, don't you, Andra?" she asks gently. Her brown eyes have turned from cold to warm in a few seconds.

I look up, and find all three of them staring at me.

"Of course. If I get picked, I have to go to the Capitol, and then to an arena where I might get killed. Hana told me."

I bite my lip. I don't like thinking about it. I hate thinking about it.

It's quiet for a few moments, until Mama speaks. "_There_," she snaps. "You've heard it from her. Is that what you wanted?"

"I want her to _know_." Eliza stands again, heading for the kitchen counter. "I want her to know what it is, who does it, and _why_ they do it. I want her to know that they are cruel, and they are the reason why this"—she picks up the pouch, shaking it so we hear the clink–clink of metal coins inside—"does _nothing_ to fill our stomachs every day."

"We would be dead if it wasn't for them!" Mama slams a picture frame a little too hard on the shelf.

"We would be_ happy_ if it wasn't for them!" With that, Eliza stalks out the door. I flinch as it slams shut.

The room is filled with a silence that makes me shiver.

...

After calling to my sister in the forest and dragging her home to get ready, Mama, Daddy, Eliza, and I are prepped and clean and out the door.

I hold Eliza's hand as we walk quietly through the mess of houses and buildings, pausing occasionally to wave to friends or an old couple we know. They walk in the same direction.

Some families laugh nervously. Ours sticks close together, although we'll be separated when it's time; Eliza and my parents will move away with the elders and younger children, while I find my place with the twelve–year–olds. I hope I see Hana, or Gwen and Lynet. I'd rather not start a conversation with someone I don't know, and besides, it's a little awkward to be searching for new friends on this occasion anyway.

Eliza squeezes my hand. "How're you holding up, Sweets?" That's her nickname for me. It's silly, but I don't mind.

"I'm fine." I want this to be over with as quickly as possible, so we can finish our birdhouse.

"Hey." Her voice softens a little. "I really want to know if you're okay, Andra. Being scared is fine. Heck, when it was my first time, I had butterflies in my stomach!" She pokes me to prove her point.

"You didn't have an older sister when you were twelve!" I exclaim, laughing.

Eliza is somehow always there when I need her to be, and maybe that's a sister thing. It saddens me sometimes to think she never had someone to look after her like she looks after me.

"You're right. You must be oh–so–_lucky_ to have such an amazing sister, Miss Chane."

I chortle, as Mama puts a hand to my braided hair. I turn and see that we've arrived, and there's only a few minutes left until it begins.

"We'll meet here after it's over," Daddy tells me with a grin, pulling at my braids. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay." I swallow, and return the smile. I think I might be feeling the butterflies Eliza was going on about.

Eliza gives my hand another squeeze, kisses me on the forehead, and whispers good luck, before they are behind the line, near the edge of the square.

I look for familiar faces, and spot a few girls who I've talked to once or twice in class. I follow them to the registration table quietly. After signing in, I find myself in the back of a crowd which scatters at the front of the Justice Building, between hundreds of kids my age and older. They seem to be spreading themselves. I keep following the girls in my class until I'm at the very back row.

That's when I wish I had a few pointers before coming. I have absolutely no idea what to do. I turn my head left and right, and somewhere in the distance—behind the eighteen–year–olds—I catch a glimpse of Eliza's boy cut bobbing to the front of the line made for the elders. I lift my arm, and it takes three sweeping glances for her to see me. She smiles and waves, blowing kisses as she does. I want to call out her name, but the crowd's getting bigger and she could never hear me. So I smile again and turn around, staring up at the stage, where a microphone podium, two glass balls, and a few chairs stand empty.

"Andra!"

Even though I'm standing in a large group of yapping twelve–year–olds, I still manage to jump when someone plants their feet in the space beside me.

"Hana!" I grin.

I didn't think I'd see any of my friends here; there were too many people to look through. But here she is—Hana, with her golden braids and brown eyes and expensive dress. My best friend.

"I don't want to be up there, with everyone staring at me," she says quietly, her eyes wide and shy. Her voice falls into a hushed whisper. "I don't want to be here at all. Do you?"

I shrug, hoping to be seen as at least a little tough. "Not really. I'm a bit scared."

Her gaze quivers. "Really?"

I nod, but before I can answer, there's a loud screeching; Hana yelps and covers her ears. I look to the stage and see Rhinestone Magenta, all dressed up with her jewelry and hair, and of course, how could I forget her giant curvy nails? They grip around the microphone like a bright, colorful eagle, and it almost makes me giggle.

"Erm. . .sorry!" Her squeaky voice rings through the air. Suddenly, everyone is quiet, and I can hear my heavy breaths. She purses her lips. Her eyes glisten with excitement. She's done this too many times, I can tell, and each one just seems to get better. "Oh, look at you lovely children! Welcome, all! Welcome to District Seven's annual reaping, where the district escort"—she beams, placing a hand to her chest—"will be choosing one young girl and boy to go off to the Capitol, for the Thirty–eighth annual Hunger Games!"

There's a small murmur through the crowd, and some older kids clap quietly, politely.

"Of course, you know the drill! Ladies first!"

She skips to the glass bowl on her right, which is practically overflowing with bits of paper. She digs her hand in, and for ten very long seconds, I bite my lip and feel the butterflies move ferociously in my stomach. Beside me, Hana has sucked in a breath and hasn't let go.

Rhinestone yelps in joy, flicking a small white slip up in two fingers as she heads back to the microphone. As the butterflies claw at my insides, I think about today and tonight, and how Eliza and I will have to hurry to finish the birdhouse because this is taking so long. The crinkle of paper echoing through the square and throbbing in my eardrums.

"A–ha! And District Seven's female tribute is. . ."

_Maybe the birdhouse is too big._

_Maybe I should've drawn it lower._

_I hope Eliza doesn't get mad._

"Andra Chane!"

It's too quiet. The first thing I feel is the horrible quiet. Too loud, too clear, too open.

Those horrible words that I've heard my whole life and know belong to me. It's my name. For a second, I don't move; I don't think anyone does. Then I feel a brush of fingers on my wrist, and Hana's watching me and so is everyone in front of me, and I know that I have to walk, get out of the crowd, one step after another, move. Andra, move your stupid feet, move, move, move.

Hundreds of kids watch me from below, and I shift from my right foot to my left on the stage where the silence is too loud.

"Andra, darling!" The woman with big hair and claws stands beside me. I think her name was a stone or a mineral or something, but I can't remember. "And how excited are you, my lovely girl?"

If I open my mouth, I think I will cry. I open it anyway, and whisper a word into the shiny silver ball that probably sounds like an animal to the crowd. "I. . ."

"Oh," she purrs, "she's so thrilled she can hardly speak! That's perfectly all right!" And she bursts into a fit of giggles.

The crowd has started to move again, and murmurs sweep over heads like waves, and I think I am forgotten.

The woman beside me squeals, "And now for the boys!"

My eyes look over the faces I know and don't know, until they land somewhere in the back—on a girl who couldn't stand to get hair in her eyes. She's watching me, her face blank and unreadable from this distance. My sister does not move.

The woman touches my shoulders, and suddenly I'm turning and looking up at an older boy. Really old. He looks about seventeen or eighteen, with shaggy blond hair, brown eyes, and a towering body. I don't know him.

I will not win. I am too small, I am a child, and I am scared.

I think he knows. He looks at me, and I feel even smaller, and he knows that I will die.

We shake hands. The reaping is over. Everyone is to return home, smile, and pretend the day has gone by normally. Forget the little girl that will die, they must be thinking. Forget her; you didn't know her very well at all.

The woman steers us into the Justice Building, and before I know what's happening, I'm locked in a small room with a window. A man in a white suit tells me to wait for my family.

I'm sitting on a plush white couch by the window. I think I should cry. I don't know why, but I can't feel a thing. It's scaring me. The door opens, and the boy cut steps inside. The door closes. I don't move.

"Andra." She tucks undone hair behind my ear. Her fingers are shaking. "Oh my God. . ."

I can't help myself. I throw myself in her arms, stuff my face in her shoulder, and sob. I heave out in wretched breaths, hiccuping and swallowing. I feel her hands in my hair, trying to calm me down, but there's no calming me down.

Between my sobs, I manage to ask Eliza where our parents are. She looks at me painfully, and I know before she tells me.

"You know how they're scared of those Peacekeepers, Andra, even though they never talk about it at all."

So they won't come. Mama and Daddy won't come say goodbye because the Peacekeepers scare them for reasons that are too ridiculous to exist. I uncover my swollen, damp face from her shoulder, and Eliza kneels until her eyes are level to mine.

"Remember the birdhouses, Andra? Remember how I showed you how to use an axe?"

No. She never showed me. She used it once, and then left it for work. We used knives, harmless small knives.

"Yes," I breathe.

"If you see an axe, or a knife, go for it. You have three days in the Training Center, remember? Go for archery and the axes and knives. That way you'll be ready, understand?" She grabs my face in her hands, and I see tears streaming, landing on the floor like raindrops. "Please, please go for them. Do you understand me? You have to try."

"I'm just a kid," I whisper through cold tears and a clogged nose.

She can't say anything.

It's okay, though, because then the door opens and a suit walks in and tells me it's been fifteen minutes.

"Move," I tell Eliza.

She looks at me and nods. Gives me a kiss on the forehead. Whispers, "I love you." Stands and turns to walk out the door.

I don't think I'll ever see her again.

...

Half an hour later, Lukas and I are standing inside the train by the door. The walls are light blue, matching the perfectly–made sofas and seats dotted around the compartment. Off to the side, I spot a huge table, as long as the width of the train. After a moment of studying it, I realize the wood is shiny mahogany—something we've never been able to afford. I almost reach out and run a hand over the elegant, glossy surface, until I realize the true delicacies lie on top.

Behind me, I hear Lukas suck in a deep breath. Laid on the table, out in the open are so many things I've seen but never tried, or haven't seen at all in my life. Sprinkles glittering and gleaming on top of warm, freshly–made muffins; biscuits layered with orange cream and melted chocolate, and topped with pink berries; ten jugs of juice with icebergs floating inside, all different colors; a tray of tiny cupcakes, dipped in a honey coating and wrapped in strange green varnish. And there's more. It seems as though the table will crush under the weight, but it doesn't.

A voice behind me breaks me out of my stupor.

"Well, you two may as well have a seat! I'll call over Rob and Bertile in a tick—they will be your mentors! Exciting, isn't it?"

The woman's preppy voice echoes in my ears even after she's left the train. I'm still frozen by the door, unable to step a foot inside.

Suddenly, Lukas moves out from behind me and grabs a seat at the table, his eyes wide and traveling over the desserts. I watch him curiously, though I'm still shaking from the reaping and I know it shows on my face.

He looks at me and grins like a goof, and pats the seat next to him. "Come on over," he says.

He rolls his eyes and pats the seat again. "I swear, I don't bite!"

I smile a little, and shuffle slowly over and sit in the seat he's offered. I slide to the very edge of the cushioned chair, staying as far away from him as I can without him noticing. Without a word, I watch him fill a plate and begin to eat it all up.

He looks over, smiling widely with his mouth full. "Want shome?"

My eyes move to my fingers in my lap, and I murmur, "No" as quietly as I can.

"Are you trying not to talk to me, or something? It's not like I'm a bad guy or anything."

I look up abruptly and blurt out, "Aren't you, though?"

Lukas looks confused. His brow furrows, and I think he's upset. "Gee," he begins, scratching his head. "I hope I'm not! Wouldn't that be the twist! The dumb, open–book guy being the villain!"

For a split second, I almost giggle at his expression, but quickly hush myself before a sound escapes and look down again.

"You don't sound so scared," I point out.

"I am, darlin'. I guess I'm just tryin' to be positive. No use moping around 'bout everything. Just gotta be happy and thankful." He grins. "Don't pretend you didn't almost smile there!"

I pause. I feel like I shouldn't be talking and neither should he, but he seems really harmless. I look at him. "Thankful? What's there to be thankful about?" After a second, I sigh. That sounded whiny. I bite my lip and add, "I just want to go back home, is all."

He hesitates, thinking it over. "Well, this food! I haven't had a full stomach in quite some time, and it feels damn good to have a full tummy!" He slaps his stomach, and laughs. "You probably think I'm insane, yellin' and shoutin' an' all! I guess I might be, but we can't know, can we? And how about just being alive? We've each had a decade and more to live! Now, isn't death just another fact of life? So why is it a big deal if we die young? As long as we're happy leading up to it, death is fine for me."

I'm so shocked I can hardly speak at first. How ignorant he is! How unaware he is about the messed–up system, and why the Capitol is the way it is! He has no idea at all!

"So you're okay with it, then," I sputter. "You don't mind that there are ten other kids that are going to die, too? You just want to eat!" I eye the food, and wrinkle my nose. "And there will be so many people watching you and me both. Hundreds, I think. They're all going to be watching. . ." I wrinkle my nose again. "But no, Mister Lukas is only here for the cupcakes and jam, right?"

He looks at me in surprise. "Of course, the food is amazing, but I guess. . .I don't know. 'Course I am afraid. But I just feel like life is short anyway?" He ends up saying it like a question, and I have no answer.

"But don't you see what's wrong with it? Why they treat us like this before we are sent to die?"

He pauses. "Never thought of it that way, actually. It does make sense now, though."

I bite my lip, hoping to have sympathized with him. But he seems more upset than before. So I try to relax, smile, and tell him, "I don't know why they give us all this food if they're going to send us into the Games. But I think you're right! It'd be a shame if it all went to waste." I point to a chocolate cupcake sprinkled and drizzled in an orange pasty cream. "Are you going to eat that?"

He smiles a little. "Nah, I only like my cupcakes with jam."

I smirk and reach for the cupcake. As I peel the wrapper away, I blurt out again, "Why are you so nice to me?"

Before I can take it back, he's already thinking it over. "I'm nice to everybody, I think."

I bite my lip, but I can't help it. "Even after what they did to you?"

Mama always told me to steer clear of topics that aren't my business, but then I realize I'm eating a cupcake and talking to someone I hardly know while headed for my death.

The universe can let it go.

"Emmaline, I mean," I add. "After what happened to her, they kept asking you questions. But you're still nice to them—to everybody."

This stops him from answering right away. He sucks in a deep breath. Looks down at his hands. "Because they were right in doing that? Because she was nice to everybody, I think. I guess there's just no use in being mean all the time. Everything with Emmaline was so hard, though. I didn't talk to anyone for a while, actually." He falls silent, and I understand.

"I met her once," I say softly. "Well, saw her, really. My dad and sister made a table for her parents, and I got to go with them to deliver. She answered the door." His eyes widen, but there's more I have to say. "She smiled at me; she was so pretty, so nice. . ." I look up at him. "I'm really sorry about what happened to her. I'm really sorry."

Lukas smiles then. "Thanks, darlin'. You know, I loved that girl. I was truly, deeply in love with her. I still am."

A soft smile spreads across my lips. "Weren't you fourteen when. . .it happened?" I ask tenderly. He nods. "So then how were you in love?"

"What's wrong with young love?" he replies, and I can tell his eyes aren't seeing the table or the train or me, but Emmaline.

"Seems to me it's too good to be true. Like it ends before you know it." I wrinkle my nose again, and a laugh escapes me. "And there's a lot of kissing, too. On the mouth!" I burst into a fit of cackles, and bite into a cupcake. "I don't think I'll ever kiss anyone when I'm old enough. I'll stick to cupcakes!"

Lukas smiles, but doesn't answer right away. I think something I said made him silent, but I don't know what. I chuckle again and reach for another cupcake, when a sign in my stomach tells me I've eaten too much.

"Oh, I don't feel so good now. . ."

"Eating after not eating'll do that to ya'," Lukas says, looking out the window, head in hands.

I can't see him, but I know that his eyes are still seeing the sky or the glass frame, and something else. I know he's thinking of her, and I wonder when a time will come when I look up, and my eyes won't see anything but the one person who I'd give the world to. It makes me smile, and it makes me sad.

I see Lukas's hand absentmindedly go to his pocket, and he smiles and pulls out a rumpled ball of daisies.

"Can you weave daisy crowns?" he asks.

* * *

...

* * *

**Lukas Seon, 17 ~ District 7 Male**

**Erudite–Dauntless Girl**

Emmaline's smiling face flashes through my groggy head, and for a disoriented moment, I think she's here. I know she's not—she's gone.

I yearn for her laugh, her long, shining hair, and the way she danced with my mom around the small fires we had. All of that was a lifetime ago, it seems. But every little detail of the day she died blares in my mind, reminding me of what I did and of what I didn't do.

...

_I look up, and she is smiling. Her brown hair falls into her face and hides her shining blue eyes. She tucks it behind her ear and bends back down, collecting water tubers. She hums as she pulls them from the ground and puts them neatly into the basket under her slender arm._

_"You're staring and not doing anything!" she says with a laugh. "Honestly, Lukas, do you expect me to do all of the work?"_

_I blush and shake my head, coming to kneel next to her. The river is clear and clean, and I can see tiny fish dart around._

_"Sorry, Em'," I reply, as I pull some more tubers out of the ground and stick them into her basket. "Hey, did you know that they used to make soda out of these roots? I've always wanted to try it, but I can't figure out how."_

_"You and your ridiculous stories, Lukas."_ _Emmaline laughs, and stops picking for a moment. She leans forward and sticks her hand in the water, jumping a bit when all the tiny fish dart away. "Don't you wish sometimes that we were like these fish here?"_

_I furrow my brow in confusion. I am pretty glad to be a human and not a fish. I don't see where she is going with this one._

_"You know, these fish are free! They have no authority, no one telling them what to do, how to act," Emmaline sighs, wiping her hand off on her pants._

_"Well, I'm glad that we're human, so then I can be friends with you," I say with a goofy grin._

_She smiles widely, the hint of wariness gone from her eyes. "What—you don't think fish can have friends, too?"_

_"'Course not! They're just silly little fish!" I yell, jumping up._

_She giggles and stands. "What are you doing?"_

_"Why don't we act like the fish for a day, Princess?" I ask with a smile._

_"How so?" Emmaline asks._

_"We can be fish friends and not have to do anything, just for a day!" I say. "Haven't you ever wondered what is behind that fence there? Why don't we go find out for ourselves?"_

_She grins. "I guess we could…"_

_So I take her hand in mine, and skip to the section of the river with stepping stones that go across. Water rushes by, slapping over the slippery stones. I look down and remember with a bit of dismay that we left our shoes at home. Oh well. It'll be more of an adventure this way._

_"Are you sure about this, Lukas?" she says with uncertainty, her grasp on my hand tighter and tighter._

_"Yeah, I'm sure! Come on, this'll be fun!"_

_I step onto the first rock with no problem, and quickly advance to the second one. She follows timidly behind me._

_The water is so loud now that I can't hear her. Or anything, for that matter. All we hear is the water rushing as we step onto the next stone, hoping it won't be our last._

_But there's always a last stone. And sometimes it's not the actual last stone._

_The world slows to a stop as I feel Emmaline's hand fall from mine. The water's loud churning abates for a second, and I hear her scream as she falls into the freezing cold river. Everything speeds back up to real time, and I am hit with what is actually happening._

_She slipped and fell into the river._

_And I have to save her. Even if I have no clue how to swim._

_I jump into the clear, clean, cold water, and all sounds around me cease. I see in slow motion. I even move in slow motion. After being under for a moment, I realize I need air, so I claw my way up. Finally my head breaks the surface, but I haven't even made it past the first test. I see her far ahead of me. I have to get her. I tear at the water in front of me like it's paper, and that moves my body forward, as does the current. A jagged rock snags my leg as I float, and I feel the searing pain, but I keep going._

_"Emma!" I cry, water rushing around me. I feel like the water is yelling over me, trying to block my voice. "Emmaline!"_

_I hear nothing, no reply. The rapid pushes me over large, sharp rocks that stick out of the water; I yelp as my cut scrapes against the sandy boulders. I make it over the rocky part, into the calm and lazy section. I bob up, and see her in front of me still._

_Face down._

_I rush, tearing and clawing at the molasses–like water to get to her. I drag her lifeless body to the bank, pull us onto the needle–sharp grass, and lay next to her in exhaustion._

_I can't hear her breathing._

_I sit up slowly, and come onto my knees to be above her. Her face is deathly pale, her lips are bright blue, and we are both sopping wet. My breaths come out in shattered gasps. Is she dead?_

_Is she dead?_

_What do I do? I don't know how to save people from water! What should I do?_

_"Emma?" I say. "Em'?"_

_Nothing. No breath, no movement, nothing happens to make me think that she's alive._

_"Emma? Emma?" Why isn't she waking up yet? Shouldn't she be awake already? "Emma, honey, come on!"_

_Nothing, again._

_I lean down and put my ear to her cold, wet chest. There's no heartbeat. She's dead._

_What should I do?_

_The world goes by in a haze after that realization. I carelessly run to the nearest house._

_"Please, sir, you have to help me! My best friend isn't breathing! Help me!" I cry as I pound on his door. He opens it and runs with me to her._

_Long brown hair tangled over her shoulders, face as white as a sheet. I know she's gone._

_The man touches her neck for a pulse. Touches her chest for a heartbeat. He bends away from her, shaking his head slowly._

_"I'm so sorry, son. I'm afraid she's dead," he says, a sad frown on his face._

_I cry out, gasping. The man stands and leaves, but I don't notice. All I see is my best friend, dead, because of some stupid thing I wanted to do. I kneel next to her body, sobbing and yelling._

_"No! You can't die! You can't die! I love you!"_

_I sob for what seems like hours, hoping that we'll both wake up in a field of flowers, but that doesn't happen. My throat just grows raw, and I run out of tears, so now I'm whispering to her._

_"I love you, Emmaline Ross. How can you? I love you!"_

_The funeral is days later. It's raining, and nobody wants to be here. Eventually, they bury her body in a fine coffin and lay it into the muddy ground._

_I stay outside long after everybody has left. I lay on the mound of fresh dirt that lays above her beautiful body. I whisper to her, wishing she could hear me._

_Her mother comes outside, and talks me into coming inside to warm up._

_I sob nonstop for days after that._

_I love her._

_But she left me._

_And I never told her._

...

Our room is fairly dark; the blinds are open slightly, so slanted sunlight spills in a bit. I shield my eyes as I sit up, pushing off blankets. The bed squeaks under my weight. Nic's bed is empty.

I open the blinds all the way, smiling at the warmth, and fumble around in the basket by my bed for some halfway decent–looking clothes, then throw them on. I run my hand through my hair and consider it done.

The door opens with ease, and I step into the living room. My family is sitting around the small wooden dining table, eating breakfast. I hear forks scraping on cheap tin plates, and my mom and dad murmuring. Dad laughs, and Mom stands to grab his plate.

I clear my throat with a lazy grin. They turn their heads toward me.

"Oh, Lukas, you decided to join us!" Dad says happily. "Hope you don't mind if there's none left for you. Got a bit hungry."

My stomach sinks with the realization that there's no food. In District 7, there are only a few wealthy families, and a couple more well–fed families. Everyone else has experienced hunger more than a few times. In cases where District 9, 10, or 11 are at slow production rates, the Capitol cuts rations for them and the rest of the poor, outlying districts.

"Oh, son, I'm just pulling your leg! We saved a bit of it. There's even a little brown sugar."

I laugh, letting out a nervous puff of air. "Of course you were kidding," I say quietly, as I sit next to Nic.

"Whoa, did someone run you down, man?" Nic says. "Your hair looks awful."

I roll my eyes. "Since when have you cared what my hair looks like?" I reply, scooping some oatmeal into my mouth.

"Well, it is reaping day, and we all know you wanna look nice for Genevieve," Nic retorts.

I snort. "Uh, no. I do not dress for girls, for one. And for another, I don't like Genevieve in that way. I never will, either."

Genevieve is my friend. I would never, ever want romantic relations with her; my only love was Emmaline, and it will probably stay that way.

I grab the brown sugar bowl and sprinkle a tiny bit of what's left on the bland oatmeal.

"Oh, sure," Nic says, as he stands up. "Keep thinking that."

I ignore him and finish my breakfast.

He's right about it being reaping day. I had totally forgotten about that until now.

On my sixth reaping, I have my name in eight times, two more than required; we have a fair amount of money and only need so much tesserae. Nic and I don't mind. We've always been an optimistic pair.

There's an antique clock above the wood stove. I twist in my chair to look at it—it's about eleven o'clock. We have until 11:15.

I take my empty bowl to the sink and dump it with the other bowls. I try the faucet to see if we have any water today, and find we do—maybe in celebration of the reaping? Whatever the reason is, I run cold water over the dishes. Tiny bits of food are easily rinsed off, and I stop the flow, grab a dishtowel, and scrub.

When I'm done, I run to our room, the trailer's floorboards squeaking.

On the small table Nic and I use as a desk is a tiny wooden charm. Normally, I keep it in my pocket, but it apparently isn't in there now. I grab it and run my thumb across the ingrained letters: 'LS & ER'. Lukas Seon and Emmaline Ross. I have no idea why this object makes me so happy, but it does. It was the only possession of Em's I could get my hands on before her mother accused me of murdering her daughter. Right before my life unwound itself.

My parents tell me to let go of her. My friends tell me to get over her. I know I need to, but I can't. It's been three years, and she's still in my heart.

_..._

_We're thirteen. It's after school, about four in the afternoon. Genevieve and Jason are busy, so we can't all go to someone's house._

_Our parents give us each a cheese bread roll, and we decide to have a picnic. Emmaline throws down an old blanket with flowers sewn in, and sits quickly on it, her skirt flying around her. She pats the spot next to her as she unwraps her roll from a napkin._

_"Well, what are you waiting for?"_

_She smiles as I sit, a hint of a blush creeping up my cheeks. It is so weird to be alone with her._

_When we were younger, being alone was fine. I hadn't had those weird tingly feelings in my stomach. But when we were twelve, I started thinking about her differently. I was confused._

_"Lukas," she says, "what is wrong with you? You've been so weird and quiet lately, like a different person."_

_"I don't know," I mumble, fiddling with the bread's napkin._

_I really want to hold her hand, and then kiss her. And I know we're way too young, but I still hope she wants to, too._

_"See, this is what I'm talking about," she says, quirking her lips up, the way she does when she's thinking. "Depressed?"_

_"What?" I reply in shock. "No, Em'. Nothing's wrong."_

_"I got it!" she yells, jumping up. "You hit puberty! It's the only explanation! Fear of your voice cracking!"_

_I know for sure that I blush then. I can't remember if I_ have_ hit it by this point, but her even thinking about it makes me so embarrassed. I laugh to ease the enormous amount of tension._

_"So that's it?" she pushes. "Did you seriously hit puberty? Oh, wow. This is awkward now." She begins to blush too._

_"No!" I say. "No. There's no issue, Em'. I promise."_

_She looks at the bright blue sky, and sighs. "Okay, Lukas. I'm just a little worried about you. I mean, you pretty much stopped talking to me. I don't know why, and it freaks me out. Do you not want to be friends with me?"_

_"Whoa, darlin'," I say, a bit of my character seeping back into my words. "Why would you assume that? Emmaline Ross, do you seriously think that all of a sudden, I would stop being friends with you?"_

_"Well, no, but you stopped, and I thought—"_

_"Right. It's a 'no'. There's no way on Earth, or in Hell or whatever," I say, reaching for her hand with a bit of courage._

_"I think you had improper grammar there," she says. Her hand is still in mine, and I feel a little squeeze, one that I didn't make._

_It opens up the rest of the day. I'm happy and talkative, and even hopeful._

_I suggest that we make daisy crowns. When we were seven or eight, she wove them out of flowers and grasses, and they made me think of her as a fairy. For some reason, I want the nostalgia._

_Of course, I'm awful at it, and she laughs as she takes my hands in hers to better make the crown. I'm not sure if it's for the nostalgia, or maybe partly a ploy._

_We laugh and smile and eat, and don't get home until it's dark._

_We walk hand–in–hand, the dusty street lit by old kerosene street lamps. It seems so beautiful and magical, with weeping willows swaying around the light, and the smell of summer in the air, just around the corner._

_A fat white candle on a wicker table flickers against her house, maybe to let her know that her parents are home. We stop in front of the door. I take her other hand in my free one, so that we're facing each other. She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. It clicks in my mind that I love that girl._

_She leans away, a huge grin painted on her pretty face, then goes for the door, turning when she touches the knob. "Goodnight, Lukas," she says, as she opens the screen door and slides inside the house._

_I hear pots and pans clanging, and her loud mother talking to her. The door comes back and shuts me from the warmth. I'm blushing, and feel like the happiest person on Earth. I walk home with a bounce in my step._

...

We never told anyone what happened; it was like our little secret day from Heaven. I still sometimes dream about it. But I also have dreams about our other memorable day—the day she died. And sometimes my mind mixes them together.

I shudder, making myself think of the good of Emmaline. All those days where we laid in the sun and did things we didn't tell anyone about.

God, I miss her so much.

But I can't wallow in the past. I have to move on. Think about other things, like my job, and school, and my friends, and stuff like that.

Going to work today is optional, and I overslept, so I couldn't make it. Anyway, there's not enough time to get anything done. So I go to the square early, and sit on a bench to watch people set the stage up.

Peacekeepers in white run up and down the square. With important things in hand, I'm sure; my eyes aren't the best, so I can't really see what's going on too well, but I can tell they're busy.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see daisies growing in a sad little clump by the bench. I bend down and pick a few, stems included.

With a ghost of a smile, I try to weave them together to make something, a crown not even in the realm of possibility with my skills in consideration. My clumsy fingers fumble and knot the stems. Emmaline would have turned it into something beautiful—she just had that way with nature. But here I am, left with a ball of dead daisies that looks like someone stepped on it.

I sigh, and shove it in my pocket. Maybe Emmaline's spirit will protect me from being reaped. I like to think of her as my guardian angel. I want to know that she looks over me and protects me; I know I would, if our positions were reversed.

Her family began to hate me shortly after her death.

After the funeral, Peacekeepers came with questions. _Where were you on the day of Emmaline Ross's death? Why were the two of you crossing the river? Did you, or did you not, push her into the river?_

The questions spun and swirled in my mind, and my only answer to the scary men was, "I can't remember."

They seemed to think I did it. Through way of intimidation, they squeezed out the answers they wanted to hear. I sounded guilty as heck to them, and to everyone in the district.

A case was held against me: Seon vs. District. We couldn't really afford anyone to defend us, and the court system is horrendous in District 7 (all the outlying districts, I think). I was found innocent because of my age; the district was too poor to ship a fourteen–year–old to the penitentiary on the outskirts.

My hand goes to the charm deep in my pocket. Anxiously, I rub my thumb over the tiny letters. I take a deep breath, preparing myself. I just have to go to the reaping, and then I can hang out with Jason. Or go to the mill. Or do something to take my mind off of her. Anything.

When I look up again, I see that people are starting to mill into the gated area. I get up from my dismal seat and follow them.

Peacekeepers are directing people to the proper sections. Eighteen–year–olds to the very front, the rest going back until they reach the adults' section, which is also roped off.

I head to the seventeen–year–olds' section and search for my best friend's ragged black hair. I find him. He's having a heated discussion with Genevieve, his girlfriend. I smile easily, and roll my eyes at them.

"I only said that even if you had that kind of money, you would never get away with it," Genevieve says, hands on her small hips.

"Oh, really, and how are you so sure of that? Have you ever done it?" Jason retorts.

Genevieve rolls her eyes and turns to me.

I put my hands up. "Don't drag me into this. I don't know what ya'll are talking about."

She looks pointedly to Jason. "We'll continue this after the reaping."

"Okay, fine," he replies. She steps away from him, fuming.

"Jesus, man, what did you say this time?" I ask.

They get into fights all the time, and she hasn't ever stormed away like that. Well, I guess that isn't storming away, but she does seem pretty mad.

"You don't even want to know," Jason says, running a hand through his hair nervously.

"Dude, do you think you ruined it?"

He looks over at her, then back to me. "I don't know."

"Damn."

Suddenly, there's a squeaking noise on the stage, then a buzzing, then a loud tap. We look up and see the escort, Rhinestone Magenta, touching the silver ball before her.

"Woops! Sorry about that," she squeaks into the microphone. The hideous feathers on her green–and–brown dress glisten in the sun, and her fingernails wrap around the stem of the microphone like some snake with claws.

"_Damn_," Jason whispers to me. "She gets uglier every year."

"Oh, look at you lovely children! Welcome, all! Welcome to District Seven's annual reaping, where the district escort will be choosing one young girl and boy to go to the Capitol, for the Thirty–Eighth annual Hunger Games!"

People talk a little, murmurs rippling through the crowd. Mostly, though, we're quiet.

"As always, ladies first!" Rhinestone says, a horrendous grin on her sickly pale face. Her thin lips stretch themselves way too far over her white teeth; the coloring of her lips spills onto her teeth.

She hops to the bowl on her right, and digs her hand in quickly. She peels the slip open, and takes a moment to read the name before speaking it aloud.

"Andra Chane!"

There's silence. Then a small girl, about twelve, with short brown hair steps up to stand next to Rhinestone. The woman tries to talk to her, but Andra is too nervous or quiet or something.

People start to talk again—probably about how young this poor girl is. I feel awful for her.

"And now for the boys!"

Rhinestone hops to the bowl on her left, lets her hand hover, and then plunges it in and grabs one slip.

I hope it's not Nic, or me, or Jason.

_Not anyone I know_.

_Not anyone I know_.

"We have Lukas Seon!"

It's me. That's my name.

When she says my name, it feels like a foreign word. Something that's been spoken and yelled so many times now sounds like gibberish.

But I know it's me. I have to go up there. There's really no point in moping around down here.

I take a deep breath and start toward the stairs.

"Sorry, man," Jason says.

I ignore him, and focus on dragging my feet, which seem so much heavier. I know there won't be any volunteers; there never are. So why am I going so slow?

I pick up my pace, and finally stand next to Rhinestone and Andra. I tower over her tiny frame. She looks at me with fearful eyes, and I try to look at her kindly, with a small, reassuring smile.

But she shrinks away. So I let her be.

"Ah, there we are! The District Seven tributes for the Thirty–Eighth annual Hunger Games—Andra Chane and Lukas Seon!"

She makes us shake hands, and then we are led off the stage to the old Justice Building. A Peacekeeper takes me to a room in some back hall.

I sit on a brown leather chair. The leather is worn, sat on so many times. Across from the chair is a blue velvet sofa. And between the chair and sofa is a dark brown wood table with thick, dusty books.

I am about to pick one up when the doors open, and my family spills into the room.

Nic hugs me and sits on the sofa. He sniffles, then smiles a bit. "At least they have nice furniture in here."

I force a laugh, and it's way too loud. It shatters the peace, tension, and angst, all at once. Suddenly, my parents burst into tears, and it takes everything in him for Nic not to cry. They sit on either side of Nic.

I don't know what to do.

"I'm not screwed, just so you know. I can use an ax. And I'm fairly charming, right? So I can sneak into an alliance."

"Oh, Lukas!" my mom snivels. "You have to come home, honey!"

"I will, Mom. And Dad, you know I can handle a weapon. I'll fight to the best of my ability, I promise."

"Son," Dad says, "don't quit out there. It's gotta' be tough."

I nod.

For some reason, this moment—here and now—doesn't seem real. I feel like this is happening in a dream, or in someone else's life.

But it is real. It has to be.

The reality hits me like a brick wall. I am going into the Hunger Games. I might die. The odds aren't really in my favor, or Andra's; we are the underdogs. Maybe we can rise up on top. We could be fighters.

And then all our time is up. A man with dark skin and a deep voice comes in and takes them from me. They say they love me, for what could possibly be the last time. I hug them, and tell them it back.

I really do love them all. I really hope I can see them again.

The heavy oak doors slam shut, and I'm alone again. Silence pounds in my ears. I need some noise to wake me up.

Maybe if I die, I'll find Emmaline.

Or maybe we'll just be bodies, and I'll never see her again.

Jason and Genevieve come in, and sit across from me. For a moment, I think Genevieve is Emmaline—their features are so similar. Long brown hair, bright blue eyes, tall. They could have passed for twins.

But I realize it's only her, and I relax.

Just them.

We have nothing deep or important to say to each other. They wish me luck. Say I'll do well.

And when Jason is about to leave, he turns and says, "We only came because we didn't want to seem like jerks." He scratches the back of his head. "Bye, man. Don't suck."

The door closes, and I laugh dryly. That makes me feel so much better, knowing that my only friend is dead.

I prepare myself to just wait for a while, for the girl to finish her goodbyes. Mine are all done for sure.

But the door opens once more, and a face I haven't seen for three years comes into view.

Emmaline's mother, Helena.

She sits across from me, straight up, hands tightly clutching her hat.

"Mrs. Ross?" I say in shock.

"Call me Helena," she replies.

"Why–why are you here?" I ask.

And realize too late that it may sound rude to her, especially when walking on such thin ice with her and her family.

"I wanted to give you this," she says quietly. "Or show it to you, I should say; you can't keep it."

She moves her hands from her hat and opens it up, revealing a beautiful black leather notebook. The cover is engraved and imprinted with delicate lines and symbols. A black cord keeps the book bound closed. I gently untie the cord, and open the book. Drawings, poems, pieces of writing, and everything.

"It belonged to Emmaline," Helena says.

I can't believe I am holding a piece of her. It's like a part of her soul.

"Thank you," I breathe. "Thank you so much. This means so much to me, you don't even know."

I flip to a random page covered with her writing. I squint to read her miniscule cursive, and when I do, I smile—it's about me. Her thoughts, her feelings. Her writing is so thoughtful and meaningful.

I can't begin to describe the happiness, joy, and every other amazing feeling that spreads through my body.

I flip to another page. It's a poem about falling in love.

Another page has a picture of two hands entwined.

And then the happiness melts into sadness. My lip quivers, and tears prick behind my eyes. She didn't get the life she deserves, because of me.

"This is so amazing. Really. Thank you so much," I say, my voice cracking. "I'm happy I got the chance to see this before I left."

"You're welcome," Helena says sadly.

Then, with no more words, she picks up the notebook, tears out the page about falling in love, and gives it to me. "Keep it. She would want you to have it."

She leaves. The door closes, and I cry.

I cry for me, I cry for Emmaline.

I cry for everyone who has lost someone, everyone that has died.

I just cry.

Great big sobs shake my body, and I find myself sucking in ragged gulps of air. Snot runs from my nose, and I don't bother to wipe it away. Right now, I am completely vulnerable.

Like the fourteen–year–old boy who lost his first love, I am just a little kid.


	9. District 8 Reaping

**Clarily Montane, 14 ~ District 8 Female**

**Revolution Mockingjay**

I breathe in the smell of fumes and cough, wanting to throw up even though that's normal for District 8, what with our factories and all. I rub my eyes and sigh, realizing that it's the reaping. I don't want to be picked; then again, nobody does.

I crawl out of bed and slip on a dress. Mom is already helping Marabeth into hers. It's Marabeth's first year, and she hasn't taken any tesserae (while I've lost count of how many times I'm in), but I'm still nervous. My older brother Perenthos paces around. He's nineteen and has already survived.

Marabeth walks over to me, smiling. "Your dress is so pretty!" I exclaim, hugging her.

"I'm scared," she whispers, her eyes large.

I try to smile confidently. "It'll be okay."

She bites her lip and goes back to Mom, who is reaching for the door.

"Time to go," Mom says, opening the door and pointing outside.

All of us walk toward the square. I hug Mom and Perenthos goodbye, and get in line. Soon, Marabeth is at the front — a Peacekeeper pricks her finger and moves along to the next kid. She reaches me. I watch Marabeth closely as she walks down to the twelve–year–olds.

I get in line with the fourteen–year–olds and wait. After every kid is in their group, the Capitol woman walks onto the stage. "Welcome!" she exclaims into the microphone. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

My heart's pounding, but I try to look casual. I sigh, and rock back and forth on my heels. The usual video plays, talking about war and how District 13 was annihilated. I've always found it rather boring, but there's really nothing I can do about it.

"That was just lovely, wasn't it?" the Capitol woman says, smiling from ear to ear. "Now the time has come to select the young woman who will compete in the Hunger Games!" She walks to the reaping ball, and pulls out a name.

_Not me. Please don't be me_, I think over and over.

"Clarily Montane," the Capitol woman calls out. Sighs of relief are all around, but I say nothing. I stand there and blink, suddenly dizzy. "Clarily. Montane," she repeats.

I shake my head and clear the dizziness, then slowly walk toward the stage. When I reach the top, I look down at Marabeth. Tears are already rolling down her cheeks.

"Are there any volunteers?"

Silence.

"All righty then, onto the boys!"

I can't believe it.

...

Perenthos sees me first. The door opens, and he walks in and hugs me. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," I say, trying not to cry.

"You have to promise you'll come home," Perenthos says, pulling away and looking me in the eye.

"Of course!" I exclaim. "What, you think I'm just gonna' go out there and let someone kill me right off the bat?"

"I didn't mean that," Perenthos says. "Just…try. For me. And Mom. And Marabeth."

"Keep them safe," I say. "I'll try."

"I'll be waiting right here."

…

A Peacekeeper yanks Perenthos out of the room. Mom and Marabeth come next.

Mom hugs me tightly, saying nothing. Marabeth hugs my waist and cries.

"It'll be okay," I say, trying to reassure them and myself. "I'll come home safe and sound, and everything will be back to normal. Just you wait."

"Promise?" Marabeth whispers.

"I promise."

...

The boy tribute from my district is Ramie Ortega. I remember Marabeth telling me about him. She said he was kind. I'm hoping that he won't kill me in the Games, but I'm sure he will; after all, if it comes down to it, I'll kill him too. I'll do anything to get back to my family.

The train is magnificent. As soon as I walk in, the smells of cakes and pastries fill my nostrils. I mostly eat dessert because I've never had any before. It's sweet and marvelous, and melts in my mouth. I watch Ramie eat occasionally, but mostly I pay attention to the dessert. Ferronia, our escort, occasionally tells me to slow down, but I don't. How am I expected to?

After eating, I head for my room.

I pass Ramie in the hall and say goodnight to him, then crawl into bed.

I'm terrified, though I try to hide it. I don't want anybody to see me that way; I want to be seen as strong. I'm still not sure if I can kill children, however.

Though, as I've stated before, I'll do anything.

* * *

...

* * *

**Ramie Ortega, 12 ~ District 8 Male**

**YazminDominguez**

It was the night before the reaping. I started to get really nervous. It was the night where it sunk in that this was my first ever–so–terrifying reaping day.

The names were drawn from two glass balls by the funny–looking escort, straight from the Capitol with her ridiculous outfit and wild appearance; that outfit was made by my people, maybe even by my father. It frustrated me, knowing they pranced around while we starved and worked to death for nearly nothing in return.

I didn't understand the necessity of all this assassination either. I didn't understand where you could find pleasure in seeing a brother kill a sister for entertainment, or to demonstrate what the Capitol was capable of.

I despised the Capitol.

...

People told me that I had an old soul trapped in a twelve–year–old body because of the way I expressed myself; I guessed it meant 'mind' or something. I didn't agree. I just saw clearer than others my age. Details no one else noticed.

My mom used to say that I had an artist's eye. I missed her so much. She was frail, but always joyful. She passed away right after giving birth to my brother Brodie.

I had a list of people that weren't in my life anymore—like my grandmother. (She died last year of natural causes.) Her first husband was my grandfather on my dad's side of the family; he died when Dad was barely a year old, in the war between the Capitol and the districts.

I lived with my dad, aunt, and siblings. Dad's name was Neil, and my aunt was his half–sister and her name was Ciel; my sister Desiree was fifteen; Brodie was two. No matter what, I would always love these people, because apart from being my family they protected me and gave me the best they could.

When we had dinner that night, the air felt icy and depressing. No one said it, but I knew that they were probably also thinking that tomorrow, one of us—Aunt Ciel, Desiree, or me—may not be there.

Dinner wasn't filling, but it was something. I brushed my teeth and climbed under my blankets.

As I lay there, I fantasized about a new world where there weren't any Hunger Games. One day, maybe soon, the districts would unite and overthrow the Capitol, bringing an end to the horrible game that tore families apart and left them torn forever. I would love it if we were finally at peace. That was my wish. My ultimate wish. But I had a feeling that if it did happen, I wouldn't ever see it.

I was afraid of being chosen, but promised myself I would give it my best shot. After all, it was entertainment, right? If that's what they wanted, that's what they'd get. I would probably be good at knife–throwing; I had pretty good aim. Mom taught me sewing and weaving, and they were my best skills, but I didn't think _that _would help me unless I could weave my way to victory.

I wished I could draw a new nation. I loved drawing, and designing clothes. Sometimes Dad brought me patches of cloth from the factory, and I made collages or clothes for Desiree's old doll.

I wanted to be a designer, but I didn't really have that possibility. I'd probably end up just working in the factories like Dad. I guessed I was okay with that; if Dad could do it, so could I.

Mom was a fairly pretty lady. She had long, waist–length hair. Not like mine, though: I had blonde curls because of Dad. But I had her eyes, light hazel with specks of gold. I loved my eyes because they reminded me of her.

I wondered what my family would do if I wasn't around. Aunt Ciel and Desiree were almost never in the house. When Dad wasn't working, he was drinking; he drank a lot and stared. I was stuck taking care of my brother, which was not an easy task. (It was okay, though.)

I fell asleep to the image of Brodie playing in the living room, and had a pleasant, dreamless sleep.

...

"Wake up!" I lay motionless. I didn't feel like getting up.

Aunt Ciel kept screeching, so I yelled, "Okay, all right! I heard you the first ten times!" I heard footsteps, and then she poked her head in my doorframe. I raised an eyebrow at her before she left.

After a while, Desiree sat on the edge of my bed and stared at me.

I stared back.

"Whatever happens today, I want you to know that I love you. A lot," Desiree said. "You're all I could ask for in a little annoying brother." She smiled, ruffled my hair, and kissed my forehead.

"I love you too," I whispered.

Since the reaping wasn't until noon, I dressed in my normal worn–down clothes and headed toward the kitchen for breakfast, which consisted of stale bread slices and tea. As I walked in, I said hello to everybody present; they said hello, or waved. It dawned on me—when I saw her face—that even though this was Aunt Ciel's last year, the odds weren't in her favor. Her name was entered loads of times.

...

I played a little while outside with Brodie, and then chatted with my dad, aunt, and sister at the table.

I made my way back to the small, crowded room I shared with Desiree. I headed toward a wall covered by a curtain. Behind that curtain, there were a few loose bricks. In that little gap sat a potted fern. That plant was used to make ramie, the fabric I was named after.

Mom gave it to me for my tenth birthday. (I had no idea where she got it, though. Plants were rare in District 8.) It reminded me how strong and fragile life was at the same time…how it was everywhere, even in darkness. The plant had survived two years, occasionally taken out of a hole to bathe in warm sunlight, and I believed that my her very essence lived in it.

I played with the heart–shaped leaves, twirling them between my fingers.

I put the bricks back to conceal the fern, and pulled the curtain over the wall. I lay on my bed, with my hands covering my face.

I had almost dozed off when Desiree came in to tell me that it was eleven o'clock and I should be getting dressed. I took a cold shower and picked out my best clothes: the ones with no holes, and that weren't too faded. I was in a soft, long–sleeved cotton shirt, cream–colored khakis that were a little too big, and a pair of brown leather moccasins that used to belong to my cousin.

My aunt and sister wore similar, very pretty cream–colored dresses. While Aunt Ciel's had powder blue clouds, Desiree's had pale pink flower designs.

At a quarter to noon we were lined up at the door. We took the fastest trail to the square, and separated into our corresponding groups: Ciel, Desiree, and I hugged Dad and Brodie, since we'd be herded with the other potential tributes while they hung around in the crowd.

...

I scanned the stage while the speech was read. I saw the mayor, Woof Abroforth (the male tribute's mentor), and Rena Florence (who played the same role for the female tribute).

The escort tapped loudly on the microphone. I recoiled at the sound, and at her irritating Capitol accent—magnified ten times. She was dressed in a yellow outfit, with hair and makeup the same shade.

She let her hand swim in one of the glass balls, until deciding which one to pick. "Clarily Montane!"

All eyes were on Clarily. She was petite, with dark brown hair down to right below her shoulders. I couldn't make out her expression.

'Montane'. I thought I recalled that name. Yes, I did, because I went to the same grade as Marabeth Montane: her sister.

There were no volunteers.

The escort read the boy's name out loud, and people turned their heads in my direction. At first, I didn't understand…until my brain registered that my name had been called. Ramie Ortega.

I stood paralyzed, feeling like my heart had dropped into my stomach. Some stranger gave me a light push on the back that jolted me to reality.

I then started toward the stage, other strangers patting my back as I passed them. When I was on it, I looked toward the crowd…which was _huge_; I didn't know my district had so many people!

I was told to shake hands with Clarily. She had dark brown eyes. I smiled at her, and then we were pushed into the Justice Building, where we would say our final goodbyes to our families. I couldn't really remember much of that. It happened too quickly, and the shock of the moment blurred most of it out.

I found myself in Aunt Ciel's arms, and she was weeping. I squeezed her tightly. She muttered something unintelligible.

Desiree hugged me, and told me she loved me again, devastated.

Brodie obviously didn't understand, but I still got a hug from him.

That whole time, Dad was in a corner with tears in his eyes, saying things like—"Out of the whole population of boys in District Eight…" He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I smelled alcohol on his breath. "I know I don't say it much, but you're one of the best things that happened to me, okay? Don't ever forget it. Be strong."

That's when I began to cry. I told Desiree to take care of my plant, and Brodie.

After a group hug, Brodie stuck out his meaty toddler hand and said, "Rock." In his tiny palm was a sleek, flat gray rock.

I took it. "I love you."

He blew a kiss at me, and then they were gone, leaving me with an empty, longing feeling.

...

I was rushed onto the train that would be making its way to the Capitol as quickly as it could on those high–speed tracks.

Clarily, our escort Ferronia Pallum, her mentor Rena, Woof, and I watched the recap of the reapings that went on earlier that day. We munched on a variety of finger foods, which were delicious.

I ate a little of everything. I thought I should enjoy my 'Hunger Games tribute' experience to the fullest. It really didn't help me if I got depressed and refused to eat, because it was what it was—I was the Thirty-eighth Hunger Games male tribute from District 8.

So I gorged myself on sausages, breads, meat pies, vegetables dipped in sauces, dishes of every color and taste. Some had strange names, aromas, appearances, you name it.

Ferronia pointed a long, red–tipped yellow nail as she told me off when she found me licking my fingers after a juicy sausage. I ignored her, and the urge to tell her to shut up; she'd never starved, so I just rolled my eyes and continued savoring the sweet meat.

I was occupied with the delicacies on the table, so I didn't pay much attention to the other districts. The Careers were lethal–looking, no shock there.

But what did make me tear away from my meal was the District 9 reaping, because someone volunteered. A volunteer from 9?

After a while I didn't care anymore, so I went back to my roll.

I knew I probably shouldn't have eaten all those dishes, since it might make me sick, but I did anyway. I was determined to live like a Capitol resident all that week (well, sort of) and not stress.

I didn't exchange almost any words with Clarily or her mentor, but who needed them anyway?

The only conversation I had with Woof before being sent to bed was when we were at the table. We had finished watching today's events, and he looked at me from his coffee. "What do you think?"

"I think I'll just end up dying in the first eight hours, that's what I think," I told him, being completely honest.

He nodded as if agreeing. "Don't count yourself out so fast," he said. "You have to train, find out what your skills are, and then—if you still feel like you've got no shot—you're allowed to say that."

He got up, tipped his glass in my direction while raising an eyebrow, said goodnight, and walked away. Probably to his compartment.

Who was he kidding? I had no chance against the Careers, or practically anybody.

As I was in front of my room's door, I came across Clarily; I waved, said goodnight to her, and closed the door behind me. _She's very pretty,_ I thought.

I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Woof's words echoed in my mind.

Maybe I should listen to him; he was my mentor, after all. He had won one of these terrible Games, and I wasn't the first tribute he'd mentored. He probably knew what he was saying?

I didn't know. What I did know was that I had nothing else to lose.


	10. District 9 Reaping

**Spelt Keller, 13 ~ District 9 Female**

**Dances With Vampires & gamemaker . john**

There's a second where I wonder if my nightmares have reached a new low. For so short an instant that it almost doesn't exist, I grasp at the hope that if I can force myself to wake up, I will be sitting on my bed in my room, surrounded by my three sisters and my cousin Riso. They'll be curled under their quilts, dead asleep and exhausted from working in the fields yesterday. Their breathing will be slow and even.

Mine will come in shaking gasps, and I'll worry that I'm going to hyperventilate. My heart will beat so fast that it feels like it might suddenly stop. I'll listen to the silence in the house, and stare at the blue–and–green wallpaper decorated with bright red roses—which Mom says is cheery, and my brothers say is girly (it's both)—or at the black windows, where there's the tool shed, truck, and grain fields, and no one around for miles. And try to calm down. I don't bother my sisters with what happens anymore, and definitely not my parents who don't get enough sleep as it is. I just remember what they tell me.

…

_"Hey, hey, listen," Hopper whispered, one night when I was sitting on the edge of her bed, more panicky than usual. I couldn't get over it that time—it was so real._

_I was in a field at a Bloodbath, and a girl chased after me with an axe and I tried to run, but I couldn't run fast enough. I could almost see and feel her hacking me apart limb from limb. I tried so hard to wake up. I thought I would never be able to escape. _

_Finally, I wrenched my eyes open and realized that I was still in one piece. Then I got out of bed and tried to sleep next to Hopper. But the beds are narrow; two people can't really fit._

_"You're not in the Capitol," she said. "There's no crazy axe–wielding Careers here to hurt you. You're in District Nine. Safe, at home, with me, Hay, and Riso all in the same room, and Mom and Dad one door over. Okay? Don't worry. And if there _is_ a crazy axe–wielding Career out there," she added, "they had better watch out, 'cause I know how to use a scythe."_

_I couldn't help smiling a little at that._

_"Go back to bed."_

…

I'll push away any lingering memories, pull my warm quilt over my shoulders, and lay my head on the cool pillows. Then I'll close my eyes and hope for something pleasant. Opening them at the slightest sound, sitting up a few more times and trying to figure out where it's coming from.

Eventually, though, I'll ignore it. It's nothing compared to standing on the reaping stage as a tribute, watching a normal, nice–looking boy be reaped as your district partner…and then a monster volunteering to take his place.

"I am Rift Quayl, and I am volunteering for Flax Matheson."

The monster's real, all right. I'm perfectly capable of running from him, and I would if there weren't guns aimed at me.

…

"You're gonna' get squashed."

I sit against a wheel in the bed of our family's pickup truck, with my head ducked, constantly pushing long, thin windblown strands of hair out of my face. They keep getting free no matter what I do—and some almost poke me in the eye.

I glance up. Is Grind talking to me?

No, of course not. He's talking to Kernel, our crazy five–year–old brother who's climbing over the tailgate. The truck is moving, and if we hit a bump he'll fly off.

Grind grabs Kernel's arm and puts one around his middle, pulling him away. He makes him sit down.

Kernel gets a ridiculous grin on his face, and pulls himself over the side just enough to watch the dirt road blurring past below. Grind puts him on his other side, glaring.

After that, Kernel tickles Malt instead. He squeals with laughter, kicking. This only makes Kernel tickle him harder.

On the ride home, we'll talk and joke around some...but right now, grim reality is settling in, and even the ones who are too old for the reaping are afraid for those who aren't.

When Hay and I lock eyes, she turns away and stares blankly at the other side of the road. I stare at the truck bed, at the space between my feet and where Harvest lies in the middle.

How many minutes have passed since we left? I can't see the main road yet, so not a lot…

The truck rolls along the countryside at twenty miles an hour, kicking up pinging rocks and more dust. It hits a bump, jerking me around a bit—the shallow pothole. We're close. Harvest, Kernel, and Malt let out a simultaneous scream of joy as they're thrown into the air.

Grind rolls his eyes, smiling.

We turn onto the main, still–unpaved road, on either side of which stretch black telephone wires. There aren't many of those in the district, mainly near here and the Victor's Village. The rest has to make do without them.

My eyes drift across the tranquil landscape—the clear, bright blue noon sky...fluffy white clouds floating over the atmosphere...the edges of the grain fields, which rustle as we pass; I lose myself in the painting of their soft yellows and browns. They are so beautiful. I smile contentedly.

I remember a time when venturing into them…being swallowed by them…was more frightening than anything else. What if I went too far and ended up miles from home, with no idea where I was?

Now, the fields _are_ home.

I retreat into their predictable simplicity, and I'm as nothing.

We usually start work when we turn eight years old, doing simple things and progressing from there. When I turned eight, my family said they didn't need me, and I could stay home—like they were doing me a favor. I'm sure they thought they were, but like my oldest brother Granule said, it would only hurt me in the long run.

So recently, I've been going with them on weekends. There's something rewarding about working hard and being paid, contributing to my district. It makes me feel useful.

We're passing other grain farms, and mailboxes beside long roads to other farms.

That road splits off to a pond where my friend Emmer and I went a few months ago. (It's the closest place to swim. I don't know if we're technically allowed to be there, but the sneaking around is part of what makes it fun!)

And the one with the sign, and the mailbox next to it marked 'Rhys', leads to a processing factory and the house of the rich family who owns it.

I almost desperately look for another landmark to occupy my thoughts with, but can't find one. I don't even mess with my hair now. I hug my knees to my chest, and watch a horse-drawn wagon coming up the road. I faintly hear the horses' hooves over the engine.

Hopper—who is sitting on my left near the truck's back window—reaches over to rub my shoulder with a sad smile.

"Cheer up, Baby," she says gently.

"I'm not a baby." My soft, girlish voice is strangely annoyed, and not helping.

Hopper withdraws her hand, sitting closer. Part of me appreciates that she took the time to notice something was wrong. But I'm not sure if I _can_ be cheerful today...at least not yet.

"I'm thirteen," I mumble.

"I know," Hopper replies, looking at me calmly. "_Just_ thirteen. Do you know how many times I had my name in the reaping when I was _eighteen_?"

I shake my head; I haven't ever counted anyone's tesserae but my own. And now I can't help thinking about why I'm so bothered. I imagine five of my thirty–three tessera sitting at the top of the heap. I don't understand—how is this supposed to be reassuring?

"One hundred and one." She says each word separate and distinct. "And even though I had all of those, I never got called—and Granule, Grind, and Rye had almost as much, and neither did they. The odds are with us, Spelt." For the first time since she started this conversation, I can see genuine light in her clear blue eyes. "I don't know why, but they are."

The odds do seem slim that I'll be called, even with so many—though it doesn't make sense that it would seem that way. I guess if they've all done it before me...and besides, there area lot of other girls. It'll probably end up being someone from a far corner who I've never met.

…

We see Charn in the distance: the massive gray factories looming over the low wood and brick buildings scattered everywhere, and the railroad to the east.

Charn is District 9's capitol. It has over four thousand people, living in apartments above shops, or in tiny houses clustered together. The wide, sun–baked dirt streets are dizzying to look at from one end to the other, and cross in a chaotic, mismatched rhythm. They say "anyone who's anyone" lives there: all the rich people—the Mayor, the grain company and processing factory owners, and the merchants...but the factory workers live there too. Almost everyone who doesn't are sowers and harvesters.

Dad parks the truck with everyone else's vehicles, in a large area of dirt just outside town. He turns the engine off and goes around to help Mom, who's carrying my four–month–old sister, Seed.

Uncle Ammasso, Aunt Flour, Granule, and my cousin Rye quickly climb out through either door, eager to stretch after being squeezed into the backseat shoulder–to–shoulder. They might get to be inside, but we have fresh air.

I stand. Hopper smooths my messy, tangled hair while Grind, Hay, Riso, Harvest, and Kernel jump off the side of the truck bed, raising clouds of earth as they land with soft thumps.

When Malt tries to follow them, Rye quickly grabs him off the edge and puts him down.

"Malt, come here," Mom says. Malt looks up, and toddles over to her. "How many times do I have to tell you? You know better."

Malt says sorry in a tiny voice.

"It's all right, just try to remember not to do it again," Mom says patiently. "Go with Grind and Harvest to get checked in. Stay with them, don't wander off."

Hopper jumps off the side, and walks toward town with Riso. Cereali and I aren't that brave. I could land wrong and twist my ankle. We climb backward over the tailgate, first one leg and then the other, and carefully step off the bumper.

Cereali is eleven, but sometimes we're mistaken for twins, even though she has bright red hair and I have dark blonde. We're almost the same height and weight, and we're both pretty quiet and nice. We spend a lot of time together at school, and share friends.

We start walking. The first street is called Merchant's Row—it's where all the main shops are…like the grocer, where a couple kids (no older than twelve maybe) are digging through a knocked–over trashcan amid a swarm of flies. They look hungrily at orange peels and a rotten head of cabbage.

One of the boys notices Peacekeepers approaching, and is paralyzed with fear, like he thinks they might whip him for taking these scraps. The Peacekeepers just tell the kids to get in line, and they obey, running off so fast that no one even bothers to pick up the trashcan. I stare at the ground, feeling guilty.

Cereali and I reach an impossibly large wall of people that stretches like a field, shifting as subtly. I hold her hand, and we hurry single–file through small gaps. Not running into anyone demands all our attention and agility. We reach a point when we can't go any farther, and have to stand and wait for the crowd to shuffle along—either to the tables where we sign in, or the roped off areas and streets around the Justice Building. I can't even see where the lines to check in start. Everything looks the same.

It _is_ interesting, though, to see all of District 9 gathered in one place. I don't know where our family is, but it doesn't matter because everyone around me is also family. We are one. I smile, feeling warm and proud.

I look at Cereali next to me. Her light brown eyes are wide, focused on the person in front of her, she looks paler, and her mouth is a straight line. It's another thing we share—when we're scared out of our minds, we freeze up.

I keep smiling, for her sake. Though I wonder…is she scared for me? Is she thinking of Hay and Riso too? (Everyone says that the closer you are to the end, the less of a guarantee you have of making it out. This is Hay's last year, and Riso is seventeen.) For whoever this year's tributes might be? Or is she remembering that next year, she won't be safe anymore?

I imagine standing with the Fourteens, hearing Cereali's name. Just the idea seems too hard to bear. Knowing that she's leaving forever, and not able to do anything but watch...or volunteer.

…

I choose a line where a female Peacekeeper is taking blood; I don't know why it matters—she has a gun—but I'm more comfortable around her than one of the guys.

I'm in front of Cereali again, because she hates needles. They aren't so painful if you count to ten and don't focus on them.

I hold out a finger and close my eyes. The needle sinks in with a sharp–but–momentary pain. Then it's done, a few droplets of blood clinging to the tip. I wipe more blood off of my finger as the woman inspects the sample with a weird device, probably made by District 3.

"KELLER, SPELT – F – 13" appears on the screen.

"You're clear to go," she announces.

I move, and wait by the table for Cereali. Everyone has their blood drawn, even if they're not eligible. It lets the Capitol know how many of us there are…and makes it so that no one dares to hide and skip the reaping. She breathes a sigh of relief when she's allowed to leave.

We alternately weave through the crowd and take a few steps forward at a time. They segregate us by age, the oldest in the front and youngest in the back. Around the edges, little kids stand with the adults—the lucky ones who grew up before the war or survived seven years of not knowing. We see other kids in the roped–off areas with smudged faces and dirty, tattered clothes; it's the same whether they've bathed or not. A few obviously have money, because their clothes are new and pressed, and their shoes have been shined. They stand less stiffly, and usually don't cry.

I lead Cereali toward an edge, and count the roped–off areas to make sure we're near the one for the Thirteens. She looks at me with worry and sadness, almost crying.

"You have to go now, don't you?"

I nod, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Yeah," I answer. If I don't speak up, she might not be able to hear me. "I have to go over there."

She looks at the ground with uncertainty.

"Hey." I lift her chin, and tell her what I would want Hopper to tell me. "It's going to be okay. It won't be anyone we know. Promise."

I wish I could believe what I'm saying. I know Hopper always does. She makes promises like that because she's sure she can keep them.

In any case, Cereali is relieved. She smiles and hugs me, says "Okay", and ducks under the rope. She glances nervously at the strangers, most of whom are much older.

"It's only an hour," I remind her. "I'll meet you at the truck when it's over. Go find Mom and Dad." She dashes off, and I watch, biting my lip. I hope she's okay by herself.

I feel more and more out of place now that we're separated. Now I have no one that I know, and have to pretend to be brave for. Peacekeepers are rounding up stragglers, confronting them and pointing toward the stage. I duck under the Thirteens' rope.

The other thirteen–year–olds might not know me, but they move to let me go past them without complaining. I stand up straighter and look around the area for Emmer. Her family owns the O'Reilly candy store on Merchant's Row; she should be here by now.

I see red, brown, black, and blonde heads of hair. Emmer's is almost black, matching her dark tan. Tan skin is pretty standard, since we're mostly field workers. (She just happens to come by hers naturally.) She's taller than me, but everyone is taller than me.

Everyone in front of me is looking at the stage, so I can't make out their faces, and I only catch side–glimpses of some of the kids behind. I move closer to the stage, and feel a poke in my stomach.

"Hey there," Emmer says with an amused grin. "Are you lost?" Even today, she manages to look happy. That's one of the reasons I like her.

"Not anymore," I giggle, hugging her.

The kids next to her move over to make room for me. I take comfort in her companionship, and in theirs. I'm not alone.

Emmer holds her head high and looks at the stage, completely calm, like this is just another day. Like we're in line for sports activities by the track. I try to copy her aura. I tell myself that I won't be chosen, I won't be chosen, I won't be chosen.

But optimism requires confidence, which is something Emmer has in excess and I in short supply. We've been best friends since we were five…so when I realized that I got my first crush and didn't want to tell anyone because I was too embarrassed, but had to tell someone or I'd _die_, she was the one I chose. She thinks I have to talk to him, even though I've insisted that that's never going to happen. I don't want to be anywhere near him, in case I do or say something really stupid.

I see more familiar faces. The boy on my left is a neighbor…his name slips my mind. I wave at Durra, a pretty factory girl I know from school. She returns it grimly. I try to give an encouraging smile.

The noise of footsteps fades. Emmer and I hold hands, and I grip hers so tight that I can feel the blood pulsing in my palm. My fingers are getting sweaty.

This is it. We're ready. This is it.

"Two down after today," Emmer says quietly, looking over at me.

"Only five more to go," I whisper back.

The Mayor has finished putting papers in order and shuffling them into a neat pile, and is putting on his glasses. He clears his throat with a hacking cough, then starts to read them out loud. It's the Treaty of Treason—a long, boring document that talks about the Dark Days rebellion. No one from District 9 is alive to tell their side of the story.

Mom has talked about how she can barely remember her dad. She was four when the Dark Days started, and he told Grandma that he had to go; if the Capitol won, District 9 would suffer for it. Grandma wanted him to stay—but he left. She had no news about him, until the war ended and she found out he'd died a few months ago. His younger brother was also killed.

Grandma's younger sister survived. Their parents were overjoyed when she came home. Then the Capitol made an announcement, ordering rebels to turn themselves in. There would be a house–to–house search, and if she didn't comply she would be killed there, and so would the rest of the family. She went to the square (where I am now), and was lined up with other rebels and executed by firing squad. I'm named after her: Spelt Howell.

If it's possible, I admire them and hate them at the same time. They defied the Capitol, which is corrupt and evil, and makes us do all of their work for them. Whether we live or die is the Capitol's decision. But they also started the Hunger Games. If it weren't for them, we would all be living longer, happier lives, dying surrounded by our family and friends (or at least our district people)…instead of alone in the wilderness, surrounded by people who hate us.

They should have known better. Defiance only brings pain.

"It is a time for repentance, and a time for thanks."

Now all he has to do is read the names of the District 9 victors—it's supposed to honor them, and make what they went through worth something. It's also meant to give hope: if they can do it, so can I. This might work better if we weren't being told that only one person in almost forty years has come back…and if he wouldn't rather be forgotten.

"In District Nine, one of our sacrifices has been returned to us: Tanson Miller, in the twenty–sixth Hunger Games."

'Tanson'. That's one of the weirdest names I've ever heard. I'm pretty sure it's not a grain or anything…so where does he get it? Anyway, I wasn't old enough to see him win, but my siblings say that he hid and grew wheat, so the cameras didn't spend almost any time on him until the end, when he simultaneously killed the boys from 2 and 4. If he hadn't been able to sneak–attack and they'd found him…

District 4 got its sixth victor last year.

They're almost equal to District 2, which has the most with seven.

We're lucky if one of our tributes can survive the Bloodbath. Maybe they don't run as fast or fight as hard as they can, because they know that even if they do live, they'll only be picked off a few days later. Last year's girl died on Day 6.

"Now, I will leave you in the hands of our assigned Capitol escort, Miss Adele Silver. May the odds be ever in your favor." I watch the closest large screen, seeing the Mayor back away wearily and reluctantly from the microphone.

Adele doesn't look or sound much different than some of the kids…age–wise; none of the girls are wearing sparkling pink dresses, fur scarves, and floppy sunhats big enough to tip them over. The blonde girls don't have pink stripes in their hair.

"It is an honor to be here once again, standing before you fine people," she gushes, grinning at us. "Another month of fun and festivities. Excited?"

She's a liar. She doesn't care. If she did, she'd know we're anything but excited. Someone would have told her that we spend every other day of the year pretending the reaping doesn't exist. She would be scared right along with us…or quit her job, rather than send us to die herself.

Emmer's eyes are glazed from boredom, or daydreaming. Behind me, a boy is drawing patterns in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. Other kids are looking around or leaning to whisper to each other.

I look at Adele again when she says, "Yes, yes, I'm sure you are; we all are." Everyone in the Capitol, you mean…and maybe in the Career districts. "Before we get started, I would just like to say that the grain harvest is looking marvelous this year! Truly, it is. Keep up the great work!"

No one anywhere says anything. They stare, not quite glaring, but resentful of her mocking us.

She has probably never _really_ worked a day in her life. How can she compliment us for something that we would be beaten or worse for not doing? It isn't as if every person in District 9 can throw down their scythes and sickles, leave the combines where they are, and watch the fields rot, and all that will happen is we'll starve to death.

Adele smiles through her misery. "Another year, another chance!" I inwardly sigh. Once the name–drawing gets started, it isn't worth all of this hype…No, never mind, she can keep going as long as she wants. "Welcome to District Nine's reaping for the Thirty–eighth annual Hunger Games, everybody. Today we will call forth two among you to compete and prove your district worthy of admiration." We already admire our district—why does it matter what anyone else thinks? "Are you ready? Do you think you can do better this time?"

I _hope_ we can have a winner; we deserve it, and it'd be nice to have something to celebrate. But I would be lying if I said I honestly believe we _will_. Things don't change that much around here…like how no one says yes, cheers, or responds in any way except being tense and making–believe they're somewhere else, or fidgeting uncontrollably.

"Like always," Adele says, "we'll begin with the female tribute."

Oh no. Here it comes—it's happening right now. I barely have time to feel dread before her hand is moving around in the girls' clear, shiny glass ball. It's better that it's already happening: it won't be painless, but it will be quick and won't happen again for a long time. Like ripping off a band–aid.

Her expression becomes…triumphant, I guess, and she pulls out someone's folded slip of paper.

_It's not me…it's not me…it's not me…it's not me…_

Emmer grips my hand more tightly. She's paying full attention. It's not me, but it could be anyone, even a merchant's daughter with no tesserae.

Adele opens the slip at the microphone. I hear it rustle. I don't want to know whose name is on it; I could go the rest of my life without knowing.

She frowns, then tests it out loud, looking uncertain:

"Spelt Keller!"

I hear Emmer give a sharp, horrified gasp. (_Yes,_ I think miserably, _she pronounced it right…_) I dare to look at her, and she looks sideways at me, trying not to turn her head.

I'm frozen, staring blankly ahead at the person in front of me. Thankful that they're at least a foot taller. I know it's ridiculous to think that if the Capitol can't see me, I'm safe…but unlike last year (when I stayed at the back of the Twelves), I'm not doing it so I won't be chosen. I'm buying time.

It might be the most selfish thought I've ever had. In a district where almost everyone is named after grains and ways to process them, and things of that nature…there's only so many you can choose from. A teacher can't call on "Hay" or "Milo"; she has to use their last name, so they know who she's talking about.

It's completely possible that there's another Spelt Keller, and maybe she'll think it's her and go to the stage.

I wait, hoping.

Pleading.

The longer I wait, the more I want to cry. Because I can't wait forever. And if there _is_ another Spelt Keller, and she's reaping age, she's probably doing the same thing I am.

The boy who was drawing in the dirt earlier comes closer. "It's you," he whispers, his wide eyes sympathetic. "Go on, it's you."

Doesn't he think I know that?!

I look at him, desperate and panic–stricken, and shake my head. "I can't…"

"You don't have a choice," he says a little more harshly. "Now go!"

Emmer grabs me, and envelops me in a hug. "I'll see you in the Justice Building." She grudgingly releases me and watches.

I step back, turn, and stare at the aisle, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I force myself not to cry.

I take one step forward...two…three…four…five…six…

I'm at the edge of the aisle. And suddenly on every large screen.

I try to calm down, but I look like I've tripped and landed inches from a scythe blade—like I'm sure I'm already dead, but somehow still breathing.

I go to the center of the crowd and walk slowly toward the stage, catching myself as my legs almost collapse out from under me twice. I reach the wooden steps, but I'm so distracted I don't pick my foot up in time. My toe hits the middle of the first stair, and shock breaks through a cloud of panic as I fall forward, throwing my arms out.

I land in a crumpled heap on top of the steps, and lay there for a second, registering pain. As I push myself back onto my feet, a Peacekeeper takes my arm and leads me to Adele.

Adele smiles and nods at me. "Congratulations, sweetheart." I stare at the stage floor to my right, concentrating on the seams between the boards. "However…it is, of course, customary to ask for volunteers. Are there any among you wanting to take her place?"

I look hopefully at the eighteen–year–olds. They're almost adults. I'm a teenager, and I don't even look like it. Will they let me stay here?

Will Hay? Family members don't usually volunteer for one another (not ever), but with us things are different. Everyone knows that the Kellers and Bartons stick together.

Every morning, we clean dishes and scrub the kitchen counters and sweep the floor. We walk to and from school in a group of six; we play games, and sit together at lunch…we put our names in the reaping seventeen times to make sure no one goes to the community home. We take care of each other. We huddle in the winter to stay warm. We sleep in the same room.

And when someone picks on me about my size, or my shyness or my clothes, Hay is the one who gets in their face when Emmer can't. Sometimes she's so brave and tough.

I can't find Hay.

She doesn't find me.

"All right, then. Moving on to the young man…"

No! _No,_ I plead—_not yet!_

Adele's at the boys' ball, and Hay is out of chances.

I blink back tears and sniff, resigning myself to my fate.

I am the District 9 female tribute, and today I'll be taken to the Capitol. There will be nowhere to hide, nothing familiar, and no one to save me. My best hope is to find a scythe and outrun the others. (In this case, my size works to my advantage: I'm small and light.) I'll have to outlast them. That part won't be so simple.

Right now, I'm going to be introduced to the boy from my own district who will be hunting me. I take comfort in the fact that it won't be something he wants to do at all.

"Flax Matheson!" Adele calls.

I know for sure there are a thousand Flaxes. (Although maybe not a thousand Flax Mathesons.) Which one is he?

Right away, a boy walks into the aisle from the Fourteens, and comes to the stage. He stands on Adele's other side.

Flax isn't every District 9 boy. He's paler than anyone I've seen. His hair is a dull brown, curling at the back of his neck, with his bangs hanging in his eyes—which are grey with a hint of blue. While most of us have red hair, and just…blue.

They're empty–looking and defeated. He's thin, without being thin enough to see bone, wearing a red plaid shirt and faded jeans.

"Congratulations to you also!" Adele says with a bounce to her step. Flax looks annoyed. "Excellent," she continues, facing the crowd. "Now, again, are there any volunteers?"

Flax closes his eyes tightly and grits his teeth.

He's from a field–working family. That's good; we'll have things in common. Maybe we can be allies, and make sure that one of us comes home. I'll have to ask him why he isn't acting all that scared—

I'm trying to memorize the square when I see a boy from the Seventeens out of the corner of my eye. I focus on him instead, gradually at first…and then all at once, freezing up. I might be paler than Flax.

Flax's eyes are still closed, so he doesn't notice. If they weren't, would he think he was hallucinating?

What sane person would move from where they are right now? A girl is one thing…but a boy, when they're asking for a male volunteer? What if—?

I watch in concern, hoping nothing happens to him.

…What is he doing? He's stopped in the aisle.

He doesn't seem like he's looking for someone. And I don't think he's lost, because his clean, streamlined, and collared long–sleeved white shirt, pleated tan pants, and strong, well–fed look say that he's from Charn. I would bet on it.

He's too old to think he can go home whenever he likes…which leaves…no, he doesn't look sick either.

This is weird.

He takes a few deep breaths, and then walks confidently and decisively toward the stage—oh God.

Oh God, no.

What is he doing? I know what he's doing, but he can't be…

"I volunteer as tribute!" he declares. Like it's an honor, or a prize that he's won. Flax's eyes shoot open, and he stares at the boy in complete disbelief, jaw dropped.

Which means Flax wasn't planning on this.

Which makes it even more unreal.

There's a second where I wonder if my nightmares have reached a new low: standing on the reaping stage as a tribute, watching a normal, nice–looking boy be reaped as my district partner…and then a monster volunteering to take his place.

For so short an instant that it almost doesn't exist, I grasp at the hope that if I can force myself to wake up, I will be sitting on my bed in my room, surrounded by my sisters and Riso.

I'm not dreaming, though. I have complete control over myself, and I can run away if I want to, wherever I want to. The only thing stopping me are the armed Peacekeepers standing by the doors of the Justice Building.

The boy from the Seventeens is climbing the steps, but Flax stares fixedly at the spot where he used to be, without seeing. He doesn't react when the boy walks to the microphone next to him, and everyone falls silent.

"I am Rift Quayl," the boy says with a smirk. "And I am volunteering for Flax Matheson."

We know he's volunteering for Flax; he's definitely not volunteering for me…so why does he need to say it? Why has Flax been saved, and I haven't?

How can I compete with him? He makes the boy I stood behind in the Thirteens look short. He's huge and muscular, and can crush me without a weapon with no problem.

I don't know what I've done to deserve all this.

The crowd isn't sure what to think either. Fear, sadness, empathy, and anger are normal on reaping day, when we have to stand by and watch as two innocent children's lives are cut short. What do you say to someone who chooses to leave? 'Congratulations'? 'We admire your sacrifice'? Do you cheer and applaud, on a day when that's considered disgusting?

Two Peacekeepers lead Flax back to the Fourteens. He wanders toward the outer area, to find his family.

Rift looks sure of himself, gazing down at the crowd…and then at me, his indifference obvious. I feel a wave of fear and look away from his intense, bright green–blue eyes. What kind of person volunteers for no reason? There must be a reason.

Adele looks pleased. She is the escort to District 9's first volunteer. Our district hasn't had this much hope at a reaping since the Quarter Quell, when we voted for a strong, skilled eighteen–year–old girl and seventeen–year–old boy from rich families.

Then there's me. Well…you can't win them all. Hopefully my death won't be too bloody.

"Shake hands, you two," Adele says. "I know you're in a competition, but you still have to be civil."

I'll be civil if he is…

I look warily at Rift's hand as he offers it to me to shake, then give him mine, hoping he doesn't notice the sweat. I shake quickly, then move back, because I'm afraid he'll rip my arm off if I don't.

He can't.

Probably.

"Now, everybody please give a round of applause for our wonderful tributes, our bright new stars—Spelt Keller and Rift Quayl!"

A couple people somewhere in the crowd clap politely, but the noise is almost drowned by everyone else's collective motionlessness and silence. Rift walks into the Justice Building, and I follow.

The reaping is over.

…

"Come on, Spelt." Rift sounds patient, but also annoyed. He's waiting at the top of the steps to the bright silver train, and I'm at the bottom, staring at the concrete platform.

I ignore him. When I get on those steps, I won't be on District 9 ground anymore. I'll be in the district, but officially…leaving. I don't care what he or the Capitol reporters say about me; I can't bring myself to do it.

District 9—where there is a lot of bread, but almost no butter. Where the grain and dirt are the color of the sun, and everything is the color of the sun because it's covered in dirt.

I know the rough feeling of earth on my fingers like Mom's warm arms around me, telling me that I'm safe and loved. I'm home.

I belong here.

"You don't want to make a scene," Tanson says, joining Rift at the door. "No point in that, good publicity or not."

I have no idea what he means by that, but I realize I don't want to know what will happen if the train leaves, and I'm not on it. So reluctantly, I board the train, hesitating on the last stair and looking back. Peacekeepers clutch their guns, not giving me an option.

The door seals behind me with a rush of air, and I jump and turn, startled. No one notices. Adele is sitting on one of the plush, comfortable armchairs; Rift is admiring the food and fancy tables, and Tanson isn't in the room.

I ignore all of it, and hurry to the enormous window facing the train station. My eyes dart everywhere, trying to memorize everything (except the reporters). I look at the clear blue sky. The train glides out of the station, zooming into the deserted fields. I don't look away for a second. When they also vanish, I frantically press a hand to the cool glass and stare in their direction.

"When are we going to arrive in the Capitol?" I hear Rift ask. His reflection sits in an armchair near Adele, looking around the room.

"We should be there around midnight," she answers enthusiastically. "Isn't this train _so fast_?"

"It is," Rift agrees with her, glancing toward another window. "It's kind of cool, actually."

I give him a strange look (though his back is turned, and he doesn't see it), and then sit below the enormous window with my knees to my chest. _Get me off of this thing_.

…

After a little while I decide that Rift might be weird, but he doesn't seem all _that_ bad…and he _is_ my district partner, like it or not.

I sit in the chair next to him, and give the friendliest smile I can manage. "Hi."

"Hi," he says, not smiling back.

He returns to looking out the window.

My smile lessens, but doesn't disappear; I guess there wasn't much else he could say to that. Or is he mad about how I reacted at the reaping and the train station? He could be embarrassed to be my partner.

"Sorry about earlier, I'm just really nervous..."

Rift shrugs. "I'm really excited. Especially about getting to the Capitol."

_Uh…_ I cock my head to one side. Is he serious?

"How come?" I ask, curiously. Maybe because of how beautiful the Capitol is supposed to be.

"It's the Capitol," he answers, like that explains everything. Then— "All the people and the supposed beauty, and everything about it. It's so interesting."

I was right.

"Yeah, I guess so…" I glance away at nothing in particular, happy that I seem to be beginning to understand him. "So do you know him?" I ask, eager to learn more. "Flax, I mean?"

"Who? The guy who was reaped?" Rift says. "No, I don't know him."

Maybe I've spoken too soon. I thought for sure they were related somehow; they can't be brothers (they would both either be rich or poor if they were), but they look alike enough to be at least first cousins. Rift's short, spiky hair is only a little lighter than Flax's; they both have bluish eyes, freckles, and squared jaws; and they aren't handsome, but they also aren't ugly.

So if they're not family, or friends…

"Then…um…why did you volunteer?" I doubt he's suicidal. The only thing I can think of now is that he felt sorry for him.

"I wanted to." Rift frowns slightly. "I had planned to volunteer."

"For the money?"

"No, my family is actually kind of wealthy. Though the house we live in doesn't show it." He looks out the window again, rolling his eyes.

Most of District 9's upper class isn't snobbish; they'll at least talk to you like you're a human being. Rift is one of them; he probably isn't as frightened of the Capitol and its power as I am. Maybe it doesn't seem to affect him.

He wants a nicer house, but is satisfied with everything else. That makes sense. "Oh, I see," I reply quietly. "So it's to see the city, and the people, and all of that."

"That." Rift nods once. "And to be in the Games. To be a tribute." He shrugs like it's nothing, and a normal thing to say. Like he wonders who in the district doesn't aspire to be a tribute.

I can name more than a dozen off the top of my head.

"You're weird," I giggle, a little uneasy but also amused. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Most people. Well, actually, all people tell me that."

I smile a little more and look around, wondering what else to talk about.

"What are you nervous about?" Rift asks suddenly, looking at me.

My eyes widen in surprise. That's something I didn't expect anyone (except possibly Adele) to say. Is he asking for specifics? Because obviously I've nervous about the Games…

"Well, I mean, I've always…figured I would probably go into the Games, because I had so much tesserae," I answer, not meeting his eyes as I try to explain. "But I hoped it wouldn't be until I was older, like my sister; she's eighteen. I'm just not at all ready."

"Oh. But you're twelve or thirteen, aren't you?" Rift says. (I'm not sure why the 'but' is necessary.) "I started to get into watching the Games and preparing for them when I was eight."

"Nine for me…a little," I admit sheepishly, because it almost doesn't count: "I'm pretty good with a scythe. Most people in District Nine are, but it's something…"

"Well...I guess that's more than a few people could say from some of the other districts," Rift says encouragingly. "I mean, District Twelve's contestants can't do anything."

I smile at him. "That's what I figured. So what did _you_ do, then?"

"To prepare for the Games, you mean?"

I nod.

"Well, uh…" He pauses for a moment. "I just weight–lift, and I know—from watching the Games—how to throw a knife."

"That's probably much more helpful."

Why haven't I thought of that? If District 9 is going to get any weapon, it's a knife. From what I've seen, they're everywhere.

"I think I'm going to try archery," he says absently.

I wonder if I should ask him to be allies. Now seems like a good time. But what if he says no?

Rift looks over. "What?"

I glance at him, then at the carpet, chewing my lip. The thought of being alone in the arena makes my head spin. I'll never know unless I try...I could be completely wrong.

"Do you want to be allies?"

He frowns, thinking.

He shrugs. "Sure. Why not?"

I smile, delighted. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." He extends his right hand to me. "Allies." I readily shake it this time.

Rift smiles slightly and lets his hand drop. "Are you hungry?"

"Definitely; I only had a pancake this morning." I look at the snacks.

"Me too. I skipped breakfast so I could see my friend."

That's very sweet. I can't help but glance at my necklace, thinking of Emmer. "Really? What's their name?"

"Yeah. Her name is Amaranth." His eyes light up, and I can tell that he thinks highly of her.

I go to the food. "Do you want anything?" I ask, filling a plate.

Rift nods, and stands himself. "I'll get it, though."

"Okay." I'm pleasantly surprised.

I return to my chair, and am delighted to find that the fluffy bread rolls with strange white frosting on them have cream filling.

I wait for Rift to come back before asking, "Was she worried when you left?"

Rift sits with his plate. "Yeah. But she knows I'm capable of winning. So I just told her I would be okay, and that pretty much worked to calm her down a little."

I hesitate, wondering if I mean it, and decide I do. "I hope you do get back to her."

If not me, it should be him (probably him—I can't imagine going against him in a fight and being the one to come out); District 9 needs a winner, who isn't Tanson. Someone we can be proud to call one of our own.

Rift looks at me for a second. "Well...thanks." He looks at his plate. "I hope I do too. But you have to have people to get back to, right?"

I do the same. "A lot."

"It's just her for me," Rift admits.

"What about your family?" I ask, surprised. "Your parents and everything?"

Rift shrugs. "My littlest sister is terrified of me, and my brother hates me, and everyone else is somewhere between hate or terror and uneasiness."

I don't know whether to be terrified that the people who know him best are terrified of him, or sad that his own family has rejected him. Somehow, I think if I say that he's not half as scary as he looks, he could take it the wrong way (considering where we are).

"I'm sorry..."

"No, it's fine. I shouldn't have just said all of that kind of randomly," Rift says, shrugging.

"I don't mind, you can say whatever you want."

Rift smiles slightly. "Thanks," he says quietly.

"No problem."

* * *

...

* * *

******Rift Quayl, 17 ~ District 9 Male**

**wjjmwmsn5**

I don't belong here.

I don't know why I'm here, when it's obvious every second of every minute of every day that I'm not supposed to be here, working in the fields, dredging around the district, a total outsider.

If I had been born to the right people in the right place, I'd probably be sitting in the lap of luxury, being fed grapes in my Capitol penthouse. Not here in ratty District 9, working a job I don't get paid for. If my family wasn't exceptionally wealthy, I think I'd be on the brink of madness.

People hate me. My family hates me. And honestly, I don't give a real damn for my family or the rest of the district's people.

But I am here, and I don't _have_ to work. Thank goodness for the reaping for that.

My family, the Quayls, treat reaping day like any other day, as if there isn't a chance two of my sisters or my brother could be sent to their deaths. But not me. I'd win. That's why if Rye gets reaped this year, I'm saving his ass.

I sit up in my grungy bed, looking over at my brother. We share a room, since my family doesn't like to act like we have the money we do, and the boys share a room on one side of the hall, the three girls on the other. I'm lucky I only have one brother, but not so lucky since we bitterly hate each other, and have ever since he was thirteen and I was twelve.

I remember that day. He made me so angry, and I snapped, right in his face. He never tried to seriously do anything with me after that. I think he's scared of me, like my littlest sister Millet is.

Rye, Millet, Triticale, Teff, Barley, Quinoa, Farro. All these grain names, and my name is Rift.

It's supposed to make me feel good, because my parents thought I'd be the break, the tear, the opening in the hard times. They thought my birth would bring better fortune among the family. Well, it didn't take a psychic to figure that out. I bring good fortune, plain and simple.

But it makes me feel like I stand out so much more, and I hate it.

But I like my name for reasons, too. I'm the break in the typicality of District 9. I'll be the one to stand out and win, while everyone wishes I were here. Wishes the great, amazing, powerful Rift Quayl were back in District 9. There will be no small parties when I come home. There will be parties bigger than the Capitol can manage, they'll have missed me so much. I smile. I like this image in my head.

"Rift. . .what are you doing up?" Rye asks from his bed.

"Get out," I hiss. "Get out now so I can get dressed, and then you can come back in, got it?"

"Calm it down," Rye spits.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah? Get out."

"_Rift_."

"_Rye_."

"Douche," Rye mumbles in aggravation as he walks out with nothing but his underpants on. I narrow my eyes at the door as he closes it quietly, clutching the knife under my pillow. I actually do throw it at the door today, because I don't have to answer any questions later.

I'll be hanging out with my friend Amaranth, plotting how I'll volunteer. And even if she begs me not to, she'll eventually give in, knowing there's nothing that can stop me, and she'll help me plot. We're meeting out by this little circle of water in the poorer parts of the district.

I get dressed in reaping clothes, not actually bothering to see what I throw on, and then sprint until I'm out the door. No questions asked.

At first, my sister Triticale starts to ask me what's wrong, since she's the peacemaker of the family. But then she realizes I'm going to see Amaranth, and doesn't follow me.

It doesn't take long to skirt my way through the district and over to our meeting place. Amaranth is waiting for me. I recognize her red hair from behind, and sit next to her soundlessly. She looks at me, her blue eyes sparkling; she narrows them, a grin finding her. They don't stay narrowed for long.

Amaranth is a very hyper, overactive, bouncy person – one people generally tend to keep away from, because she doesn't care. Not about what others think. Not about what she wears or does. She is her, and exactly that. No more, no less.

"Hey," she says happily. Her eyes dart to the sky. "It's so pretty out today, isn't it? Hey, Rift! Oh, it's the best thing ever. My dad gave me a scythe! He's going to teach me how to work in the fields, and I know you think it's useless and that I should train for the Games, but. . .you know, if you learned how to use a scythe before next year, you could use that _and _knives."

I know my friend is opposed to the idea, but she seems to have accepted it and even almost looks like she has full confidence in my skill and capability.

Even though since last year, she has clung especially close to me, talking and acting like we did before the reapings came along: carefree, relaxed, and not caring about our differences. Hanging out.

But back then, she always ranted about the idiocy of my persistence to be from a Career district or the Capitol.

"Not going to happen," I tell her.

And her pale, slender face falls.

She shakes her head, shrugs, and light returns to her eyes. But I can tell, as we have been friends since we were toddlers, that she is not happy.

When she pretends to be joyful, her shoulders slump slightly forward compared to her almost ideal posture regularly. And her bottom lip sticks out a hair, indignantly – like a small child not getting their way, but less noticeable.

"Why not?" she asks. "I mean, it could be. . .life–saving. And maybe. . .maybe you'll get reaped next year. And my brother—the impulsive jerk he is, you know—will volunteer for you, and. . .and, um, you'll have to live regularly."

I glare at her, my eyes now narrowed like the slits torn into the targets of my knives.

I train illegally. And if I were caught, I would be imprisoned, unlike the Careers. But I keep it a secret from all but Amaranth. Rye only knows because we're roommates, but he couldn't care less anymore to real my dirty, vicious, bloody secret. He hates me. We are not family.

"I_ am_ living regularly, Amaranth," I snap. "I'm normal."

"No, Rift, you're different," she retorts, frustrated. "Do you see me dancing to get a spot as a tribute? Do you see anyone else doing it? You're different, and I, honestly, don't like it. You are suicidal, somewhere deep down, because you have this psychological—"

"There's no time for this crap," I snarl. And she shakes her head, not shrinking back.

I don't expect her to shrink back, and if I actually got her to, I wouldn't be happy. I don't 'like' or love her, but she's my best friend, and in fact the only person in all of District 9 that would ever, ever put up with me. If she hated me or feared me, I'd be completely, utterly alone. Even I—who doesn't care about who is friends with who, or me—don't want that.

It would be terrible, empty, a giant void where talking and laughing should go, where Amaranth and I sit, best friends, talking. I suppose that I could do anything for her in this way, to keep her still with me.

"I. . .I'll leave."

Even though I know she won't—she is just as friendless and in need of me as I am her—her words sting like a knife to the flesh.

"No, you won't." I pause, thinking. "Not for long, anyway."

She swallows and looks down. "So. . .you're saying. . .I'll always come back?"

"You will, though—won't you?" I ask.

She looks up again, closes her eyes, and sighs. Her face—skinny, pale, twisted in thought—is facing me. When she opens her eyes, they lock with mine, and immediately we have an unspoken agreement—maybe one of our most important. No matter what, even if we have to walk away to collect ourselves, we will come back together. She'll come back with a stick to spar; I'll come back with a scythe so she can teach me the ways of the field. Anything to be always, always, always friends.

"So," she says nonchalantly. "You're really going to. . .?"

"Yeah," I tell her. "Don't think about it. I'm trained, you know?"

"But. . .how would you feel if I was reaped?" she asks, scared.

Anger bubbles in her bright blue eyes. I look away so she can't glare right at me, but I still feel the red-hot anger boiling my skin. She frowns when I don't answer, and asks again, this time more insistent.

"Answer me, Rift, please. I am angry."

"I know you are," I say, and let out an unexpected laugh. Amaranth shakes her head and shoots daggers through her gaze. "I'd be. . .you know, terrified for you. But you're not trained. I am. Don't worry any, Am'."

"Rift," she hisses, "you could be killed, and then you'll be gone. _Gone_."

Tears brim in her eyes. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Even though we aren't and never will be a 'thing', it is my job to wipe her eyes, get her a tissue, get her hair out of her face. It's her job to tell me I'm being a wimp, but comfort doesn't work for me—"wimp" and "need to stop being a bum; you'll lose your last knife skill if you don't practice it" do.

"Don't worry," I tell her, letting all anger fall from me.

Amaranth and I have never hugged—not since little kids, anyway. We grew out of the stage where hugging each other was a best friend hugging a best friend. She is superstitious and I am smart; we both have our reasons why 'us' would not be a good thing.

But eventually, it got to the point where if I held her and she held me back, we thought we might actually never stop.

Still, she hugs me and lets out a small whimper—a pathetic, saddening, foolish whimper.

Unlike I would for even my youngest sister Millet, I feel sympathetic, even pitying, since I am what brought along the tears.

And she senses this. She sits up, wipes her eyes, wipes her nose, gets her hair unstuck from her wetted face, and smiles. Then she punches me in the arm playfully and says, "Loser."

"Dork." She smiles. Then she hugs me again, but pulls away quicker and with no new tears. "Come on, let's go uptown."

"No!" she shrieks. "No, seriously. Let's stay away from the square, 'eh? Let's train. Find a tree, find a tree!"

I smirk, and we go on a search for a tree to climb.

We laugh when she falls, tripping over her own feet. I kick off my dressy shoes and soar into a tree. Amaranth struggles, so I win, hands–down.

Due to this, Amaranth has to sing as loud as she possibly can. She clears her throat, glaring at me, but I shake my head, rolling my eyes.

She looks at me questioningly.

"You don't have to do it today," I tell her, and her eyes light up.

"Thanks," she says happily. Her eyes glitter as she looks around at the scenery from so high up. "It's beautiful."

"It's all right. You're an aesthete."

"Philosophy is my game, amaranth is my grain," she says jokingly, and begins to climb down the tree. "Now we can go to the square."

"Wait." She looks at me, face blank. "Let's wait."

"Really?" she says.

"Of course."

Her eyes light up, and I close my eyes. I lie back on a branch, and we sit in silence, waiting until we have to go to the reaping.

Fear shoots through me for Amaranth, but adrenaline pumps in my veins. For the first time, I am unsure of whether I am more like a Career or a District 9 citizen.

...

We walk, our bodies nearly colliding, to the square.

We're an odd, unlikely pair, and yet we're one, walking into this together, hands nearly taking each other from time to time. You'd be surprised at our willpower and restraint.

Her red hair (fiery) and blue eyes (water–like). . .she's fire and ice. My dull hazel-ly eyes and brown hair makes me pale in comparison, but my height and strength next to hers is shockingly differenced.

At the line to be signed in, we realize we're the only ones signing in, but thankfully not late. We slip into the crowd, moving to the seventeen–year–olds. I follow behind Amaranth. Her long hair swishes and bounces. I carefully finger my woven necklace that she gave me a while ago, securely placed around my neck. It has a grain stalk and District 9's symbol on it. These things, she tells me, are to make sure I remember her when I'm rich and famous.

Amaranth looks up at me, and I look down at her. Then we stand forward, and for two whole minutes hardly anything happens around us, other than the mayor slowly - ever-so-slowly - getting his papers together.

Once he finally begins, Amaranth goes absolutely rigid. Her fear is necessary; for her it is, at least. I stand straighter, frown harder, and try to look deadlier. But even the largest, strongest, most capable man would look weak amongst the idiotically terrified, quaking children in this square.

A sound from the back of Amaranth's throat escapes her lips. I take her hand for a fleeting second and squeeze it. Then I immediately let go, but her eyes bore into the side of my head, begging me to look at her. But I can't. I simply cannot. We are getting far too close for either of our sakes.

When the mayor finishes reading the Treaty of the Treason, he announces the name of our one pathetic victor: "Tanson Miller"

That's it.

He introduces the escort, Adele Silver.

"It is an honor to be here once again, standing before you fine people. Another month of fun and festivities. Excited?" Adele begins, trying to get District 9 perked up, though she must know that it's no use. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you are; we all are. Before we get started, I would just like to say that the grain harvest is looking marvelous this year! Truly, it is. Keep up the great work!"

I must admit, she hit it good with the harvest; seems like all anyone cares about here unless you are either me or Amaranth. The harvest this, the harvest that—when will I hear the end of it?

"Another year, another chance! Welcome to District Nine's reaping for the Thirty-eighth annual Hunger Games, everybody. Today we will call forth two among you to compete and prove your district worthy of admiration. Are you ready? Do you think you can do better this time?" Adele continues, her green eyes roaming throughout the crowd.

I shift back and forth between my left and right foot anxiously. After five times, Amaranth mutters under her breath, "Stop it."

The escort sees that no one is going to reply. She isn't really disappointed, by the looks of it. She continues just as anxiously as I, being as big of a Hunger Games fan as I am—maybe even larger, since she decided to pursue a career involving the Games.

I choke back a laugh. So have I. That means, I suppose, Adele Silver and I aren't all that different. . .in some ways.

"Like always, we'll begin with the female tribute," Adele Silver says.

The whole square is silent with many emotions: fear, anticipation, anxiousness. I stare into the glass ball with a pink ribbon tied around the lip of it, as Adele works her hand in around it, looking away.

Someone in the crowd sneezes.

And a sound that could very well be Adele Silver opening the paper with the name on it can be heard.

"Spelt Keller!" exclaims Adele Silver.

No one steps up for a moment. Utter silence can be heard throughout the square as confused people look around for the reaped girl.

Still, no one steps forward, and I become impatient, wishing this girl would just get her part over with, very relieved that it's not Amaranth but not showing it. Amaranth even breathes a slight sigh of relief. I pay no mind.

There's a whispering that I can't make out from the back of the crowd. Finally, after the whispering ends, a small girl steps into the aisle. Being taller than the short people at the edge of the rope, and pretty close to it as it is, I can easily see Spelt Keller stiffly moving down the straight walk, not meeting anyone's eyes. A Peacekeeper helps her up to the stage.

Adele Silver nods at Spelt Keller, the small girl with long, straight, very gold-blonde hair. Brown eyes. She isn't much—at all.

"Congratulations, sweetheart," says Adele Silver. "However. . .it is, of course, customary to ask for volunteers. Are there any among you wanting to take her place?" Adele pauses, which is merely the custom; no one will. Not for the females, at least. "All right, then. Moving on to the young man. . ."

She draws a name.

"Flax Matheson!"

_Flax Matheson. I am going to volunteer for Flax Matheson._

Yes. That sounds nice.

Flax steps up to the stage much quicker than Spelt did.

"Congratulations to you also," Adele tells Flax. She smiles at her tributes. But following the protocol, she does ask. "Excellent. Now, again, are there any volunteers?"

I hardly hesitate. I look to Amaranth with a giddy smile, then resume my deadliest expression. I swiftly step out of the crowd, breathing in and out excitedly. The afternoon sun falls over me, and I am sure that it must make me look absolutely perfect. This will be everyone's first impression.

In the aisle, I take a breath and step confidently forward, each step bringing more certainty to my set mind.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I announce triumphantly.

A gasp can be heard in the crowd, maybe several; I don't notice. I notice the murmurs, though, and decide that they are in awe of me. Of course they are.

I pass the eighteen-year-olds' section. I think about how I'll look down from the stage next year, and see Amaranth, fancy as ever, staring up at me from that section. She'll probably be working in the fields by then, even if I do offer her money that she will undoubtedly take.

I wonder what will happen when we are older than eighteen. I will mentor, sure, but what about my best friend? Will she begin to date? I only remember one date that she's ever gone on—once when we were fourteen. Will she get married? Move across the district, nowhere near me, and only see me on special occasion? The thought almost physically hurts me, so I set it aside.

Stepping up to the stage, I smirk. I move over to the microphone and say, "I am Rift Quayl, and I am volunteering for Flax Matheson."

I don't pay attention to the boy being moved off the stage. I notice it—he must not believe I am volunteering, of course—but I pay no attention. Restraining gleeful laughter, I keep a certain, proud face on. I look at Amaranth, and it takes everything in me not to cringe as thoughts of her drifting away from me flood into my head. My chest aches, and I almost cough, as though the awful thoughts are phlegm.

I look at my district partner: the small girl, barely noticeable. _She'll be easy_, I think indifferently.

Adele orders us to shake hands politely. I turn my body to her and stick out a hand with deft motions. Spelt Keller shakes it quickly and shortly, almost awkwardly, and then withdraws almost like she is afraid of me, even though I only loosely shake her hand. I can't decide if she reminds me more of Triticale or Farro.

"Now, everybody please give a round of applause for our wonderful tributes, our bright new stars - Spelt Keller and Rift Quayl!" Adele exclaims, thereby ending the reaping.

A few people applaud my bravery. Mainly, though, the crowd is dead silent.

I stride into the Justice Building behind Adele, ahead of Spelt. I let a smug look fall onto my face, and don't look back.

...

I wait on a red velvet loveseat for visitors, wondering who my first will be—family or Amaranth.

As it turns out, it's just Rye, so utterly peeved that it's laughable. But I don't feel like getting punched; though I'm stronger and better than him, I know from experience that when he's mad enough, he'll throw a good punch without hesitation. I stifle a laugh when he enters.

"What's brought you here?" I ask.

"A certain brother of mine losing his mind and volunteering to be a tribute in the Hunger Games," Rye replies humorlessly. I nearly laugh again.

"Which one?" I smirk, because it's clever.

"This isn't funny, Rift, it's the worst, stupidest thing you've ever done. Mom's out there crying, and Millet's starting to panic; she looks like she's about to throw up. Did you think for a second how this would affect the rest of the family? Or were you too caught up in daydreams about fame and glory to realize that, despite our differences, we'd rather you didn't risk your life?"

"Aw, heartbreaking little speech, bro," I tell him snidely. "But I'm coming back, you idiot. It's not a daydream; it's my future. I don't want to sit in District Nine all my life, working with grain and wheat, waiting until you take over the business when Grandpa Barley dies. It's a stupid life. You're stupid. You're all stupid. Why can't you get me like Amaranth does?"

Because it's true. It's totally true. No one gets me—except Amaranth.

"You know what? Even on the slim chance that you _do_ come back, and I seriously doubt it's going to be enough"—I think he's referring to my self-training—"you'll still be in District Nine for the rest of your life! You're not moving to District Two! So I hope it's all worth it."

"But I'll be a _victor_. I'll be going off to the Capitol to mentor every year, and I'll leave behind the pathetic Quayl home and move to the Victor's Village. I'll mail you all a coin or two every month. But I'll never have to see you again! That's almost as good as District Two!" I tell him.

"You'll be living alone, and from what I hear, Tanson Miller isn't great company. The two of you'll be watching two of our district kids die every year. And we don't need charity; we're doing fine as it is!" Rye's voice grows louder by the second. I now know why he came in alone; the girls have never seen him angry. He knew he'd probably get angry.

"Amaranth will visit me," I say. "I'll make sure one of them doesn't die. All they need is a good mentor. We've never had one of those."

"If the definition of a good mentor is you, maybe we shouldn't ever have a good mentor!" Rye yells, shocking me, before stalking out of the room. I stare at the door in disbelief as it closes.

Next up is my good old grandpa, owner of the family business, a wealthy and successful grain company. Though we're rich—well, not rich, but above middle class and below upper class—my family prefers living in an undersized home near the fields where the company is, centered around Grandpa Barley.

"Ah, the Odd One!" he exclaims as he comes in. That's what he calls me. And although I despise a lot of things about Grandpa Barley, he is a close second in the line of people who understand me. Amaranth being the first. Triticale, my oldest younger sister, is third. "I don't know if you're very, very brave and clever, or if you're very, very reckless and stupid."

"How about a little bit of all four?"

"Sounds about right." He pats me on the back, and sits on the couch across from me with his classic smile that he uses for business, specifically when he wants to persuade someone or talk to them about something very serious. It's practically his Rift Face: a mix between his Business Face and his Okay-Let's-Talk Face. "Now, Rift."

I wait for more, but when nothing else comes from him, I say, "Yes?"

"You respect me, don't you?" Grandpa Barley asks.

"Halfway."

My grandfather lets out a slight laugh, and nods graciously. "I appreciate the honesty, son." He sighs. "Who else do you respect? You can tell me. I have hardly the mind to tell them if you don't want me to."

"Amaranth," I answer immediately. "Completely. Fully. With nearly every fiber of respect I could pay to her."

"Nearly?"

"She's still a typical District Nine kid. Excited over her first scythe, her first job in the fields. Even when she's babbling nonstop like she does, she can be a bit too down-to-earth for me, but still. All in all."

"I see. With this respect is love, right?" he asks.

"Yes, I suppose. . ."

"Good. We return that love, Amaranth and I. And the rest of your family. We all want you back, no matter how much of an oddball you are," he tells me, grinning a little bit. "We don't want you a monster, though, killing left and right."

I don't bother to oppose. He isn't going to change my mind. I'm going in the Games for the sport of it, not a leisurely stroll through whatever sort of arena there is.

"So just. . .do what you have to. Not what you want. Understand?"

I nod, looking away. I don't want to roll my eyes; I actually don't hate my grandpa, and if I rolled my eyes, we'd end on a bad subject. Once I win, I will only hardly be a Quayl anymore. I'll still be a Quayl, but it'll be like two completely unrelated families with the same surname in the same district. Which isn't that common with our surname, since it's not your average 'Smith' or 'Jones'.

"Good. Good boy. I know you're not going to follow my directions, though, grandson," Grandpa Barley says. "And when—if—you come back, which I hope you do, be prepared to not be welcomed into the family."

"I've never been welcomed."

"Good point. I won't argue there."

I sigh. "How much longer until I get on the train?"

Grandpa Barley looks at his shabby watch. "Forty minutes?"

I nod. "Do you know who's coming in next?"

"Your parents and your sisters. I wouldn't be surprised, though, if Amaranth fought her way in here." He grins at me.

"Tell her to wait until last," I request. "I want to say goodbye last."

"Will do, soldier. Well. . ." He sighs now. "I better get back out there. Twenty minutes for family, twenty for Amaranth?"

"Ten for family, thirty for Amaranth?"

"Works for me." He stands, and pats me on the shoulder. "See you later, Rift."

"See you, Grandpa Barley."

He walks out, closing the door quietly behind him.

I twiddle my thumbs as I wait for the rest of my family to say goodbye to their brother and son. Am I that, though? Or am I a stranger – a refugee from war, hiding in their house?

_..._

_That war_—_between District 9 and Rift Quayl_—_ended when I was nine and mentioned for the first time publicly, decided with the utmost certainty, that this is what I want to make of myself. I was sitting next to Amaranth, who had been my best friend for three years at that time. My other friend, who I was less close to – Milo Hamilton – sat on the other side of me, still terrified at the idea of cooties._

_"I want to be a grain company owner like Rift's grandpa," Amaranth said, and nudged me._

_Our teacher smiled. "What do you want to be when you grow up, Rift?"_

_"I want to be a Career," I replied, beaming._

_Everyone looked at me, awestruck. There was no hiding it. Even the teacher stared in shock. We all knew who they were._

_Finally, she moved on. "That's nice."_

_Milo scooted away, glancing sideways at my nine-year-old self: short, cropped light brown hair and a cheesy little-kid smile._

_Amaranth was the only one who didn't stare. She blushed slightly, but she refused to follow the crowd and shun me for being a psychopath._

...

Like I asked, Amaranth does not come in next. My mother and father enter with my three sisters – Triticale, Farro, and Millet.

Millet holds my father's hand and stays close to him. Triticale sits on the same loveseat as me, but at the edge, knowing I won't want her close to me. Farro sits in a wooden chair in the middle of the room. (It isn't between the loveseat and the couch, though.) My mother, Millet, and my father sit on the couch.

After all the situating is done, we sit in silence for a moment.

"Rift," my mother says. Her tone is gentle, even though there is a rage in her eyes easily detected by someone like me, who has seen it so many times before that it is automatic to register. "Rift, I love you. I love you so, so much. And I am sorrier than ever that you have never much fit in anywhere. Not even home. Is this why you're leaving? Because. . .because we didn't love you enough? Because we do. I do. I love you."

"Beautiful speech," I mutter indignantly.

"Why?" Triticale whispers. She tries to take my hand, but I rip it away. My sister, the peace-maker. I almost respected her. "Why d'you have to leave?"

"I don't have to; I want to," I tell Triticale, turning to her. "I've been hinting to you about this for months. How have you never noticed?"

"You don't tell me things directly. I don't understand half the things you tell me, Rift," Triticale says.

"Whatever."

It's sort of silent for a few more minutes, because no one else has anything to say to me, and I have nothing to say to anyone else.

Come on, Amaranth. Get in here, you redhead.

Finally, my family leaves with muttered "I love you's", and Triticale tries to hug me, but I glare at her until she grudgingly nods and exits the room.

Then I'm waiting for my best friend, who I truly love—like a best friend. Waiting for her. Waiting.

Waiting.

Where is she?

She'll come. She has to.

Finally, she does. She steps in the calm and collected way, sitting herself on the couch before me with a soft smile, strands of red hair in her eyes. I grin arrogantly, to which she rolls her eyes and playfully punches me.

Amaranth then fiddles along the couch and little table next to it, with the plush and the fancy lamp.

"So...Capitol," she says quietly.

"That's sort of the point." I grin wider, and she sends me a glare and goes to the window, to look down at the people heading home from the reaping.

I join her, and watch her mother, father, and siblings tap their toes—not literally, but I wouldn't be surprised—at a tree, waiting. Not that she couldn't get home herself. Her parents are just odd.

"So...how are you? I figure you're holding up well, but still, I'll ask it. Maybe for courtesy," she babbles.

I see her move away from the window in my peripheral vision, keeping her eyes locked on me. I look over at her, deciding not to watch my family walk away now that they're out of the Justice Building, and smile.

"I take that as good?"

"Very good, Amaranth," I reply, sighing and sitting down.

"You don't seem good," she tells me.

I nod. "I am, though."

"Are you sure? Because I really wouldn't want you not to be good, and the last thing we need is for you not to be good going into the Games—"

I roll my eyes at her now. "I'm marvelous." I give her a dramatic ear-to-ear, overly toothy grin, and she groans. "Completely fantastic. Brilliant. Totally awesome."

"I'm starting to think you've stopped telling me how you are, and started to compliment yourself."

"Aren't I marvelous, fantastic, brilliant, and awesome, though?"

"Well, you're Rift..."

I grin. "Rift Quayl." She nods, and we hug. "So don't you go getting a new best friend while I'm gone, okay?" We pull away from the hug.

"Without having to worry about my little Rifty, maybe I can finally say yes when someone asks me out…"

I swallow. "Of course," I say tightly, coughing so I don't have to smile or laugh.

Amaranth sighs. "But I won't. Because my Rifty _is_ coming back."

"Of course," I repeat.

She looks at me warily. "Rift, what's wrong?" she asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

She can read me like a book sometimes. Not all of the time, but sometimes she can tell me everything swirling through my head in a split second without wavering. It can be nice, so she can force me to tell her the things I want to say, but won't ever say without being asked to first. And then other times, like now, it can be an awful talent because she can pull information out of me that I don't want her to have.

I smile at her lightly. "I think that I'm just going to miss you a lot, Amaranth, while I'm gone."

She accepts my excuse and smiles back. I don't have to share my discomfort towards the idea of her dating or finding someone to replace me. "I'll miss you too."

A Peacekeeper swings the door open. "Time's up," he announces. I don't like the way he approaches her, like she isn't _Amaranth, _like she's beneath him and everything else in this world. But I resist the urge to stand and say something.

Amaranth walks out without the force of the Peacekeeper, and the doors close. I will see her again. I will, and then—and then things will be perfect. I will be rich; I will be a victor, the district equivalent of a Capitolite and the tribute equivalent of a Career. I will have everything I've ever wanted, and I'll make sure Amaranth has all of that too.

I will be Rift Quayl. I will be my own version of Rift Quayl, not District 9's or my family's. I won't be the break in the bad times my family was having long ago, and I won't be the odd one out, the one who lives in the shadows, the weird one the district hates or fears. I will be their leader. I will be the death of twenty-three others, and the sound of that has never sounded so sweet before.

...

The train is glorious. Everything in it screams what I was thinking about before I left the Justice Building: fame, fortune, being nothing more than myself.

And I believe that the definition of myself is displayed before me in nothing more than the simple Capitol trinkets and delicacies, so much prettier than the finest fields in District 9, the greenest grasses of our unfarmed land. The embodiment of my nature (besides the part that craves the kill, and is filled with bloodthirstiness towards those who will never be able to defend themselves against me) spills out in this train, and nothing else will be able to capture this moment better. Wonder and awe roots in me for everything that is the Capitol. I know that I will never get used to this, and I'm fine with that. I like this feeling. I enjoy it.

I let my hand slide across a table. The surface is cold. I look at it and know that I am home. No matter how much Spelt annoys me, no matter how much Tanson pesters me, it will not send this feeling away. This is my dream that I always knew would come true.

But now that it has, I am mystified by it. I don't care (at the moment) about being a Career; being from District 2 instead of 9. I only care about the nagging pull towards the people with dyed skin and fancy outfits. I hope this is the only time I give into weakness, because my Career self is returning; I know that I am acting foolishly, falling so desperately in love with the idea of living my Capitol dream. I have a game to win—_the _Games. And I can't let even the Capitol get in the way of that.


	11. District 10 Reaping

**Jodi Quinnell****, 13 ~ District 10 Female**

**I've got cookies**

I have so many reasons why this won't be my luckiest day.

First, I'm Jodi Quinnell—'Quinnell'! I come from a big family (all together seven people), so that means I have to take tesserae. And _that_ means I have my name in the reaping ball fourteen times. (My little sister Jaquelin has hers in seven times; my older sister Jodelle, forty–two; and my older brother Johnson, forty–nine. Johnson is eighteen, so if he isn't reaped this year he's lucky.)

"What are you thinking about?" my nine–year–old brother Jeremiah asks, turning to me.

He, Mom, Dad, Jaquelin, and I are at the dining table, while Johnson and Jodelle are sitting by the small kitchen counter because there aren't enough places. Many would say, "Buy a bigger table." And we just have to reply, "They're big kids; they can eat where they want."

But meanwhile, we think: _We can't afford the table, duh!_

"Oh, nothing." I don't want him—or anyone else—to notice my fear right now.

"Who are you fooling?" Jodelle snaps. She is the second reason why this may not be my luckiest day: she will never, ever volunteer for me if I'm reaped.

Mom gives her a harsh look. (I, personally, didn't find anything bad about what she said; she's being honest. Never–Lying Jodelle.) Johnson gives her a warm, loving look instead, then does the same for me. He's a big softy who won't let anyone hurt us.

"Mom, something's burning here," Johnson warns her.

Mom runs to the stove and checks the small boiler. She's making porridge from tesserae grain…as usual.

I shouldn't complain about the tesserae. If the Capitol didn't offer us more food, we would starve. District 10 is known as a very poor district; we can't say that we live good, satisfying lives.

My mom huffs something and turns the stove off. She puts porridge in Dad's bowl, then her own. They usually leave themselves as the last ones when it comes to feeding the family.

At this point, many would wonder, 'Why does Jodelle seem so cruel? Her parents are good to her, and her siblings.'

She used to be a nice little girl. I was eight when Jodelle had her first reaping. She kissed my forehead before she left to sign in, seeming bright and happy, like nothing could go wrong.

Her best friend was reaped. Jodelle came home crying.

The next day, she tried to happy again. She tried. She failed. Then she changed.

She got better after a little while—the Games are her only weak spot now.

To my right is Jaquelin; to my left, Jeremiah.

Jaquelin seems so weak, even though we're the same height. I am stronger and smarter, more grown up than her; she is still a child. Your first reaping does a lot to change the way you think.

If anyone from our family is reaped, Jeremiah will just slowly back away from the conversation. He doesn't even believe that _Jodelle_ would come back safe and sound from the Hunger Games; he says that we're winners and none of us could die in there, but I can see very well he's lying. He's not a good liar.

I could lie about everything. I've never lied much, only in little situations, but I'm very sure I could; how hard can it be?

…

There _is_ one good thing about this morning: no work—no one has to wake up early to take care of animals. They were given extra food yesterday, and can wait a bit. Someone will take them out after the horrible reaping ceremony.

It's eleven o' clock, and we have nothing to do for two boring hours until then. Our parents don't even allow us to go outside and play, because then there's a chance that we would get dirty and ruin our nice clothes. I really don't want to ruin my dress, so I'll listen to Mom and Dad and sit inside.

Jodelle wore this faded yellow dress to her first and second reaping, and now it will be worn to mine. It'll probably fit next year too. It's pretty simple: it has short sleeves, and goes from top to bottom with no curves. Mom tied a belt around my waist so it won't look like a big bag on me.

After breakfast, Mom does my hair. It's blond and very long. Some people (like Jaquelin) say that my hair is beautiful, but it's also painful to brush and so much to wash.

But when my mom does something beautiful with it, I'm happy that I haven't cut it.

…

We are going to the square, where the Justice Building is placed. The not–so–rich (we don't like to call ourselves poor) live a few minutes away.

My siblings and I join our hands in a chain. Like last year, I'm in the middle. Then we have to sign in.

I'm shaking like a leaf in the wind. I'm so afraid—not only for myself, but because this year, I can be afraid together with Jaquelin.

It seems like the event isn't a big deal to Johnson and Jodelle. They're used to it, maybe. They can hide their emotions. I know one thing: I can't; I can lie, but emotions are a whole different thing.

Jodelle squeezes my hand. Did she just show affection?

Well, this is new. And I kind of like it. It's nice, that my big sister cares about me. That she isn't indifferent.

I look up at her. She's pretty tall, the only thing that makes me believe I won't be small forever. I smile; she responds with a small smile.

…

We are gathered in sections by ages—so while Johnson and Jodelle are in the front, Jaquelin and I are in the back, barely seeing anything.

The reaping starts with our mayor reading the Treaty of Treason. Then he announces District 10's previous victors: Felix Irille, Silas Bell, and Lisette Clare.

Our escort, Beatrix Alistair, is the dullest woman I have ever seen. She isn't hiding her hatred for this job. "Happy Hunger Games," she murmurs in a robotic voice. "And may the odds be ever in your favor. Girls first."

I have stopped breathing. _Please, not me. NOT ME!_ _Anyone but me!_

"Jodi Quinnell…"

No, no, no, no. I can't breathe.

Loud sobs escape me. There are pinches in my sides, obviously from other thirteen–year–olds. Several are murmuring.

But why? What have I done? Why now, when I am so young and can't even hold a weapon to protect myself? Twenty–three others will be willing to slit my throat because they want it. Because they need to do it.

Someone pushes me out of the section, onto the path that leads to the stage. I go past the fourteen–year–olds, then the fifteen–year–olds. As I pass the sixteens, I spot Jodelle at the edge of the seventeen–year–old section; she is staring at the escort.

I step onto the stage, my sobs audible to the country. Way to go, Capitol—you made another small girl cry. It's your specialty.

"Now the boys."

I follow Beatrix's every move as she goes numbly to the reaping ball. The tears in my eyes make everything blurry, _but I can still very well see the stupid Capitol woman who picked me to die in the stupid arena_!

No, wait! Calm down, Jodi.

They need you to participate in their dumb Games. They need entertainment. Now—what to do? Amuse them? Or let them know your hate?

Or…or be numb, show them nothing? No emotion, no fear, no pain, no nothing. Show them that they don't own you.

Ha, who I am kidding? All I can do is sit and cry, waiting until a mad Career comes and cuts me in half.

"Spencer Shepherd."

Beatrix puts the small paper slip down and looks around, only to see a boy from the eighteen–year–olds come closer to the stage. He is tall and tan, slightly muscular, all together pretty good–looking. Great, just what I need—another big guy who can squash me in a matter of seconds. My eyes tear up again.

Spencer stands next to Beatrix.

"I present the District Ten tributes of the Thirty–eighth annual Hunger Games: Jodi Quinnell and Spencer Shepherd."

It sounds awful. I'm not supposed to be here.

I sob. Beatrix doesn't mention anything, but Spencer turns and takes my hand; I look up at him.

...

Two Peacekeepers lead us into the Justice Building for goodbyes.

Johnson holds Jaquelin in his lap, her sobbing even louder than mine. Jodelle and Jeremiah are holding hands and crying.

My mom sits on the sofa, and brushes my hair like she did in the morning. "I'm so sorry, sweetie!"

"I just don't wanna' die!"

"Jodelle should have volunteered…" Johnson trails off. He's right, but we all know that would never have happened.

Jodelle lets go of Jeremiah, and stares at Johnson with fierce blue eyes. "Well, why didn't you volunteer for the boy, then?"

Why doesn't she understand? Is she really that stupid? She just thinks of herself.

I look at her, and say in a calm tone, "Because that would be called 'stupidity'." She turns to me with the same ferocity.

I put my head down on Mom's chest, Dad now stroking my hair.

"Please promise that you will come back." Jaquelin jumps down from Johnson's lap, and comes to me. I open my arms.

She takes a few big steps, and hugs me.

"Don't get your hopes up too much," Jodelle huffs in a corner of the room.

"Don't say that, Jodelle," Jaquelin says pleadingly.

"Let's face it," Jodelle says. "She doesn't really stand a chance."

"No! Shut up, Jodelle! She's gonna' come back, and she's gonna come back all right—as a victor!"

Jodelle collapses on the floor. I stand from the couch, and sit beside her. "Don't cry; I will come back."

My lip is twitching.

…

"_Time's up_!"

I hug each member of the family.

Dad takes my hand, and puts an old key into it. It looks like it's been used a lot. Probably some barn key.

"I _want_ you to come back, I just don't want to get my hopes up," Jodelle whispers softly in my ear. "Remember that."

I give her a slight nod.

And then the Peacekeeper takes them away.

I'm not expecting anyone else, so I guess I'll just have to wander here alone. After about fifteen minutes, another Peacekeeper takes me to a car.

…

The train is surrounded with silly Capitol reporters. As Beatrix leads us into it, I completely forget about what will happen in a week or so. The luxury—it's breathtaking. The walls, the tables, the floor, the furniture…I could hug it all!

Our mentors, Lisette and Silas, are already at the table. The second they see us, Lisette jumps from her seat and heads our way. She is full of energy and smiling.

"Come on, Silas!" She hurries the man so she can start.

"So, I will be your mentor, Jodi!" Lisette's voice is bright, like these will not be Hunger Games. "Silas will mentor Spencer. Mentoring time!" (If I actually win, maybe I'll be like her one day.) "What are you good at?" Lisette asks encouragingly.

I straighten my back, put a nice smile on my face, and answer in a similarly bright tone. "I'm pretty good with a whip." Yes, I'm back! The old Jodi Quinnell is here. (Well…almost here.)

"That's great. Anything else?"

"No, that's about it." I must be some kind of disappointment. Last year's female used an axe and a lasso.

What is the point of being good with a whip? It has never been used all these years. Never been at the Cornucopia.

I hope I will survive the first day. Surviving the Games is probably too much to ask. I bet there are others who deserve to live more than I do, though I can't name one reason why.

* * *

...

* * *

**Spencer Shepherd, 18 ~ District 10 Male**

**Zssillybilly & Ashbrie13**

Soft light trickling into my room alerts me that I've overslept. I toss off my covers, run to the little dresser, and throw on jeans and a shirt before slipping gray work boots over my socked feet.

I rush out of my room and take the path from the house to the barn, where the everlasting sound of mooing greets me.

Slipping between the fence slats that meet the barn's side, I unlatch the huge wooden door and drag it open, then whistle at the cows, who moo lazily; I wait impatiently for them to get a move-on as they meander about, doing pretty much everything but complying to my directions. One by one they begin lumbering out of the barn, but once my cattle dogs burst into action behind them, they're all out in a minute flat.

"Good dogs!" I chuckle, patting Homer and Zelda on their heads, before they race off to nip the cows who have wandered too far from the herd.

"Hey, Spence'," Felicity calls, and I whip my head around.

My girlfriend runs to the fence and clambers over without a second thought, then jumps on my back, laughing when I almost fall over. "I'm not that heavy, am I, Spencer?" she teases, as I go to throw her off to regain my balance.

But she's a step ahead, leaping gracefully onto the dirt. She tumbles forward and performs a flip just to show off.

"You know I don't think that, Lis'," I mutter.

"Well, that's good," she giggles. "Because if I was, I couldn't do this!"

She jumps on my back again. This time, I'm prepared. Her slender body clings to me, and she clicks her tongue like you do to get a horse to run faster—so I gallop as she whoops and twirls her hand in the air, as if swinging a rope. "Yeehaw!"

"Felicity!"

We stop short. She slides off quickly, and I turn, embarrassed. There stands her sister, gazing at us like we're dogs who never grew out of the puppy phase; it used to be cute, but now it's just annoying the hell out of everyone.

"Daddy was looking for you," she says. "He said that Nana made you a new dress for the reaping, and she wants you to try it on. She's getting annoyed."

"I'd better hurry," Felicity says, grimacing at me. Her grandma is a sweet woman, but when she gets angry, she makes everyone around her miserable.

Felicity drapes her arms around my neck, and gives me a quick kiss before running back towards her house. I watch her go, and glance at Melony (who looks back awkwardly, kind of weirded out that I'm dating her just–turned–sixteen–year–old sister).

I slink off to the barn, feeling dejected at being so suddenly torn away.

I spend the next two hours watching cows do cow things (like eat grass, and moo, and then move on to sample another patch of grass), meanwhile drawing my name into the dirt with a stick in big, looping letters, then scuffing it out with my boot and starting over, this time in a sort of zigzag pattern...then herding them back into the barn, and milking them.

As soon as work is completed, I trot home, which is less than a mile away. I usually stay in a small place on Felicity's family's property—since I work for them—but occasionally, I return to the house I grew up in; the one where my parents and two younger sisters live, on the edge of town.

My feet kick up pebbles as I travel along the dirt road. I hum an old District 10 song, "All Work and No Play", from days when rebellion was high.

_Panem, the great country_

_Turns against its people_

_Making them work_

_While the Capitol plays_

_Mindless tasks, but it's an endless battle_

_To not think of the feasts they'll have_

_With your cattle_

I step through the door, still humming, and am met with the commotion of morning in the Shepherd household. Just inside sits our kitchen table, where my dad and little sister Sable are seated, eating grain mush. My mother is at the stove, filling a bowl for my other sister Clemie, who is standing greedily under her, chubby arms held up in anticipation.

"Spencie! You're home!" Clemie squeals, and Sable joins in—"Yaaay!"

I grin and ruffle Clemie's blonde hair. She giggles, gazing at me in adoration. Sable tilts her head and laughs, mush smeared all over her pale face and brunette curls. That's the only physical difference between the twins. But if you look at their personalities, they hardly seem related, let alone identical.

Like my twin Wren and I, when she was alive. According to my parents, we were nothing alike as babies—she had big, adorable brown eyes, while I had my greenish–bluish–greyish pair; she was giggly and playful, while I remained reserved. Strangely enough, now I'm more outgoing.

Wren was smaller than I was, so she was the one to die of malnutrition. Sometimes, I wonder what it'd be like if she were here. Maybe she'd be like an older version of Clemie. Or Sable; maybe we would've switched personalities.

"So how are you guys today?" I ask, looking between them with a show of interest.

"Sable let me do her hair!" Clemie exclaims giddily.

"Wow, really? That was nice of you," I tell Sable. Then I smile at Clemie, referring to the drying mess of oatmeal tangling it: "Was that your idea?"

"Yep!"

Clemie looks curiously at my face as I try to hide my laughter, which ends up coming out as a snort that I turn into a cough. A new steaming bowl of mush shows up in front of her. She squeals and digs into it, forgetting all about her confusion.

I go to the stove and give my mother a kiss, before filling a bowl with the glop. I tentatively eat a spoonful. It tastes bland yet bitter. But I can't exactly complain—it's better this than nothing. I sprinkle on some (technically fake) sugar.

I clear my plate, and go to the room that used to be mine, but is now the multipurpose family room. I get my nicest clothes out of the dresser in the corner: a white shirt, a pair of black–grey suit pants, and my only other pair of shoes—Dad's old leather shoes, which are still in rather good repair. I carry everything to the bathroom in a pile.

The tub (an old horse trough) is already filled. My mother heated the water, and the twins got the first bath. Then for the rest, it was first–come–first–serve. Today I'm last, so I get in, grimacing, and bathe as quickly as possible, trying to keep the lukewarm water out of my mouth.

After I'm as clean as I'm going to get, I climb out and dry off with the threadbare towel hanging on a nail on the back of the door. I slip on my clothes and head toward the front of the house, where my mother is cleaning the kitchen from breakfast.

I go to the sink, roll up my sleeves, and finish washing the last few items. She smiles gratefully, and helps Dad with the twins.

I follow. As I walk through the door, I have to swerve to avoid colliding with Clemie who is speeding around the room naked, with a pair of underpants on her head. I chase after and pick her up, tickling her as I do so.

"What do you think you're doing, crazy girl?!" I ask, placing her on the bed.

"I'm Zelda," she says, and barks.

"Oh no! Zelda, why are you here? Shouldn't you be with the cows?"

"No, silly!" Clemmie giggles. "It's reaping day! The cows are sleeping!"

My smile falters. The name of this day in such an innocent mouth makes me feel sick. I try to smile again, but I know I can't keep the act up. I pull the underpants off her head and put them back on her correctly, ruffle her hair, and give her a little tickle. She giggles again. I pull her little dress over her head, then send her over to Dad to get shoes and socks.

She runs to stand next to Sable. They smile at each other in identical dresses.

I glance at the clock on the wall, and see that it's about time to leave, so I wave to my parents and start the long thirty–to–forty minute walk to the square. I'm met by the sights and sounds of reaping day.

I go to the check–in line, the whole time scanning the crowd for a familiar face. After a few minutes, I see my group of friends joking and laughing, and head over to them.

Nate sees me first. He salutes and grins.

I chuckle. "At ease, soldier." He brings his hand smartly back to his side.

Ever since we were little, Nate's called me the General. It has something to do with a Hunger Games rerun where the leader of the Careers ran the pack like an army, with ranks and sub–groups and everything. (That year, there were more than the usual tributes from 1, 2, and 4.) Nate liked to called him the General, and decided that I looked like him, so the title stuck.

I smile at my friends, and we start talking about school and work, and Nate and Daniel start talking in French, so we yell at them to shut up because we know they're talking about us. They laugh and say something that I think has to do with fat pigs, but I'm not sure.

I spot Felicity standing at the check–in line. I stride towards her, calling her name.

She turns her head, blonde hair flying, and brightens up once she sees me. "Hey!"

She parts from her friends and hugs me.

"I'm scared," she says.

"Felicity." I hug her tightly. "You're one of the bravest people I know. If you get reaped, I bet you'll win within a week." I smile at her. "You can amaze them all with your flips and tricks, and then you can kill them!"

"Not helping." Felicity glares. "This isn't a joke!"

"Chill. You have, what, five? There is _no _chance you will be drawn!"

"I know," she grumbles, not wanting to give up her pouting.

I brush a strand of hair away from her face. "Don't worry."

Felicity looks around at the crowd. "We should probably go to our sections..."

The reaping starts at one, and I left just before noon so I'd have time to stand around and talk. It can't be that close. "There are still plenty of people getting their blood taken," I argue. Then I remember—"Speaking of which..." I glance at the check–in line again meaningfully.

Felicity sighs. "I don't want to be called out for being late, so I think I'm gonna' go..." She looks away.

She turns to leave, but I stop her. "Wait."

Felicity faces me again, and I lean in and press my lips to hers gently. She smiles and takes my hand, squeezing it.

"Love you," I say. "I'll see you right after."

I think she wants to say something, but after she glances at the line and sees it getting longer, she just moves away to get a place. I meet up with Daniel, Desiree, and Alice, and we go to the eighteen–year–olds' section. It's the last time the four of us will stand together at the reaping. (Nate is the youngest in our group at sixteen.)

As we valiantly stare Death in the face—its heavily eyelined and bright purple–lipsticked face—I glance to my left, and find that Melony McLeod is my row neighbor. She notices me and looks ahead, and we spend the rest of the wait determinedly not looking in each other's direction.

When the Justice Building's clock chimes one, the Mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, this time from memory. It's a really depressing story where the happy ending is that the district people either become slaves or get shot to death.

"In District Ten, three of our sacrifices have been returned to us," he finishes (also from memory). "Felix Irille, in the seventh Hunger Games; Silas Bell, in the twenty–second Hunger Games; and finally, Lisette Clare, in the thirty–first Hunger Games."

I know from watching the tributes at the Capitol that Lisette is almost as bizarrely sunny as the escorts. Our escort—Beatrix Alistair—might be the lone exception.

"Happy Hunger Games," Beatrix says, in a monotone voice so low that if she wasn't standing in front of a microphone, nobody would hear her. "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

"Girls first," she drones, reaching into the first glass ball. "Jodi Quinnell..."

The silence becomes more and more awkward as no one shows up. People murmur in confusion, looking around, and staring at the empty aisle that cuts the sections in half—as if the girl is going to magically appear there.

After about two minutes, someone does stumble into the aisle. Looks like Jodi's a little kid from the back. She's short and skinny, but she has pretty, cornsilk–blonde hair to her waist, blue eyes spaced apart a little more than normal, and tanned skin. No wonder she didn't do anything at first; the twelve and thirteen–year–olds are always the most terrified.

Unlike some of them, Jodi doesn't try to hide it. She keeps sobbing all the way to the stage. I can't figure out if she can't help it, if she doesn't care that this might make her look bad, or if she's already trying to win over the more sympathetic sponsors.

Beatrix ignores her, and scans the crowd, asking, "Would anyone be willing to volunteer themselves?" in a voice that makes it seem like she's trying not to smirk.

She's from the Capitol, but she's not..._that _stupid. If the reaping happened at night, even crickets would be silent so the Capitol wouldn't think they'd volunteered.

"_Nobody...move_." Chirp. "_Damn!_"

When nothing happens, Jodi's wailing rises in pitch. Does it _really_ come as that big of a shock to her?

I glance at the sixteen–year–olds, relieved that I can still see Felicity sticking out of the crowd. But as I look back at the stage, I feel sorrow that such a young girl has been chosen.

_At least if it was Felicity, she would have had a chance_. Jodi has no chance whatsoever.

I quickly dismiss these thoughts from my head.

Beatrix puts on her best apathetic face, but her patience is being visibly (and audibly) taxed. "Now the boys." She takes a couple steps to her right and reaches into the ball, which is almost overflowing with strips of paper. She pinches a handful in–between her fingers, and looks at the sky, pursing her lips while she slowly drops them one–by–one back into the pile. Ending the reaping with torture seems fitting.

I quickly glance around at the boys (some more like men than boys, already with jobs, wives, and children of their own). Thirty–four little strips in there with my name on it. Theirs have so many more strings attached; of course my parents will be sad, and it'll be harder money–wise on them, but no one will die because I'm not there.

Beatrix glances at the last strip, then takes it to the microphone and unfolds it. "Spencer Shepherd." She does this much quicker than the actual drawing.

She puts the strip down and looks around, tapping one nail on the podium.

_What's with the delay for both tributes...? _

_Oh...wait. _

The name sinks in. I somehow manage to bravely step away from my age–mates, and stand next to Beatrix and Jodi, who is on the escort's other side.

"Any brave volunteers willing to go out and knock the competition dead?"

Silence.

"No? Nobody? Well...maybe next year. I now proudly present the District Ten tributes of the Thirty–eighth annual Hunger Games—Jodi Quinnell and Spencer Shepherd."

Jodi's sobs reach across the whole area. Beatrix is quiet, and I turn to shake Jodi's hand. She shakes it, catching my steady gaze and nodding slightly. As if saying 'I know.'

...

Felicity is the first person after me to come into my room in the Justice Building. I'm kind of surprised; I thought it would be my family, and then whoever else. I thought she'd run in, crying and freaking out. All she does is sit on the velvet couch next to me, and take a slow, steadying breath.

"I would have volunteered for you if I could." She pauses for a fraction of a second. "Without thinking."

"Thanks," I reply. "But I doubt you could, with all of Panem and our district's escort, with her weird makeup and dodgy hair, looking at you; it'd be harder then." She looks fairly hurt, so in a desperate attempt to rescue the situation, I explain what I mean. "As in—if you had to sacrifice yourself, knowing how much it'd hurt me and your family, you'd think twice."

She tears up and lets out a choked sob, and hugs me. I hold her there like that, until it's time for her to go.

_Melony_ is my next visitor a few minutes later. She closes the door solemnly, and laughs. "You can wipe the weird look off your face and listen to me. We only have a few minutes," she says, sitting.

I nod. "Okay. Thank you for coming."

"I know Felicity cares about you a lot." Melony sighs. "I'm going to give you a few tips."

"I promise I'll do my best," I say, meaning it with all my heart.

"First thing you need to do is create an alliance; it's always good to have someone that has your back. Try not to piss anyone off, especially not the Careers, and stay under the radar," Melony says, looking more serious than I've ever seen her.

"Okay. I can do that. Anything else?"

"Go to the weapons during training, and survival skills, like how to build a fire, if they have it," she continues. "Act polite to your mentors: they're the ones who choose how and when to send you sponsor gifts."

I chuckle a bit to myself. "That shouldn't be too much of a problem."

"Avoid the Cornucopia unless you want yourself killed or badly injured. It's your choice, but I strongly advise against it. You can get sponsored a gift if you need anything."

I nod. "Get someone up there to hogtie 'em into submission, and I'll do the rest."

Melony smiles wryly. "You gotta' survive for Felicity, or I'll kill you."

My friends are after that. Nate's deadly serious, promising to have the entire town salute me when I win. Then Daniel grins, and says something in French that ends in "merde". Whatever the hell that means.

The door creaks open slowly after what seems like eternity, and my parents walk in. The twins are at their heels. "When are we going home?" Sable asks, looking at them, as Clemie crawls under the glass coffee table.

"Soon," Dad tells her, fighting to keep calm. "Just be patient."

Sable sighs and sits on one of the armchairs.

My mother sits next to me and grasps my hand, making herself smile through tears. "I can't believe this happened..."

Neither can I. I'm feeling a hint of nausea, and don't know how to respond.

Suddenly, Clemie hits her head on the coffee table while climbing out from under it, and her shrieks make all of Jodi's crying seem like whimpers. I pick her up and check to see if she's bleeding, then carry her to the couch and let her sit on my lap. She probably _is_ in a lot of pain, but she acts like she's dying.

I pet her hair, and my mother continues. "Here we were on your last reaping, and everything was the same as it's always been..."

"It's going to be fine," Dad assures her. (Sable looks impatiently out the window.) "All he needs to do is pay attention and keep his head down, and nothing will happen. He's eighteen. Judging from the last thirty–seven years, it's the older contestants who win."

"You're right, it's just nerves," my mother tries to convince herself. "After this is done you'll both be home all the time, and everything will be better than before."

Clemie slowly stops crying. I can tell that she and Sable don't have a clue what they're talking about. They're probably not paying attention.

"I'm just going on an exotic vacation, is all. I'll even pick up souvenirs," I joke half–heartedly, trying to lighten the mood. "How does that sound?"

"That would be nice," my mother agrees quietly.

Yeah...cherish the memories.

...

In no time, it's almost been an hour since the reaping. "Say goodbye to Spencer, and we'll go home," my mother promises the twins, standing from the couch. Dad joins her.

Sable jumps up from her chair. "You have to go back already?" she asks me, disappointed.

"Back?"

I have to go back to the Capitol already? It doesn't make any sense.

"To the McLeods'," Dad clarifies.

Oh, of course; I'm always gone there, they think this will be no different.

"Uh...yeah," I answer Sable, nodding. "Yeah, I'm waiting for Felicity, and then I have to go back to work. I was only home for the reaping."

"Okay," she says sadly, following our parents as they leave. "See you Sunday."

Clemie off the couch, and hurries after them. My mother picks her up and fusses over her.

"See ya'!" I call.

My grin immediately drops off. What will they be told when they go to bed on Sunday, and I haven't visited? Will they think I forgot about them, or I don't care? At least they're not old enough to watch the Games, so they won't have to find out the truth until later.

...

I go over Melony's advice in my head as Beatrix leads us across the train station, dozens of Capitol reporters on either side.

_Find an ally_.

_Blend in_.

_Be polite, and cooperate with the mentors_ (she didn't say anything about the escort, though).

The hardest part about that will be blending in. Jodi looks like an average, nothing–special tribute. Walking side–by–side with her, I'm a giant. I look more calm and collected than scared, because there just isn't a point in getting flustered; if you can't deal with the situation, you're not gonna' win. And I'm not crying on public television for any reason.

Wouldn't it be better to stand out if I can? To look like I'm a match for the Careers and get a high training score, so I can get some of those sponsors she was talking about?

_Survive_.

The really hard part. It seems like the best way to do that is to not only _not_ blend in, but also not have allies. No one can betray you if you don't trust them first, and I wouldn't be trying to protect someone and risking my own life in the process.

Especially Jodi. Nothing against her at all, but if we team up she's the only person who'll benefit from it.

We climb the stairs to the train, and go inside. As Jodi looks around in wonder, I notice the mentors—Silas Bell and Lisette Clare—waiting at a table covered in steaming dishes of food. (Felix is one of the few victors who never comes to the Capitol.) Lisette quickly gets up and comes to meet us, smiling excitedly like we're guests at a party she's hosting.

"Come on, Silas!" she practically sings, looking back at him over her shoulder. He seems used to this by now, because he follows without any sort of remark or readable expression.

He looks at me, then curiously at Jodi when Lisette says, "So, I will be your mentor, Jodi! Silas will mentor Spencer." Four seconds don't pass before she squeals, "Mentoring time!"

I raise an eyebrow. Hunger Games. Happy Joy and Fun Time.

Silas won't be like this when he opens his mouth, right?

"What are you good at?" Lisette asks Jodi over–interestedly, as though she's my sisters' age.

Jodi straightens up and smiles, looking more confident. (Lisette's approach is working then.) "I'm pretty good with a whip."

At least she didn't say 'lasso'...but a whip isn't much better. It's a pretty typical District 10 weapon.

"_That's_ different from everything the Gamemakers have ever seen," Silas comments quietly aside to me.

"Well, it's pretty much all we can learn around here," I respond. Silas gives me a blank stare, and I look back, unintimidated.

If either of them caught a word, they don't show it.

"That's great," Lisette says. "Anything else?" she adds hopefully.

"No, that's about it." Jodi seems self–conscious. We can both tell Lisette is less than pleased.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, and then see Silas at the door to another room, beckoning me to follow him. Jodi watches me leave, with a small smile that doesn't go to her eyes.

As we walk into the neighboring room and sit down, I glance over my shoulder. The door slides shut, hiding the scene of a scared little girl and pouting mentor from view.

"Why did she bother?" I ask abruptly, breaking our awkward silence.

"Bother with what?" Silas asks, obviously confused from being brought out of his thoughts so quickly.

"Ask Jodi about her skills? What did she expect her to say? We're not Careers; we're District Ten, for Christ's sake! We don't have a wide range of weapons available to us. God, all I'm good at is throwing sticks and herding cattle. I'd hardly call that the 'X' factor the Capitol is looking for."

"You're big. You look strong. That's something you have over most of the tributes already. Being a herder, you've also killed before, and although butchering a cow and killing another human being is different, you're at least a bit more prepared than someone from a district where they only see things die of a Peacekeeper's blow, or of hunger and sickness. Is there anything else you're good at?"

"I'm all right with aim, and I can draw well. Anything else, I'm not sure. So I guess I'll just have to try a lot of things at the Training Center."

Silas nods, and gets up to go back to the other room. He turns at the door. "Just make sure that you don't get close with anyone. Allies will only hold you back."

I nod, showing that I agree with him.

Then again, having one or two would make life in the arena so much easier for the short time it lasts. So I won't offer an alliance, but I won't immediately dismiss an offer if the tribute looks worthy. Having made that decision, I feel a bit better.


	12. District 11 Reaping

**Farro Bremer, 13 ~ District 11 Female**

**lunarrose123**

That morning, I thought, _everything'll be okay_.

Since I was young, many people told me I was annoyingly optimistic, and that everything didn't have a good side. But why would you want to look on the bad side of things? It never made sense. Who would want to be angry or upset? If you looked on the bright side of things. . .nothing could really hurt you.

My only friends for as long as I could remember were Aster, Amaryllis, and Freesia. The three of them had treated me wonderfully the past few years, and I had this feeling that I could never have done anything without them.

That morning on the day of the reaping, I could have broken down; thrashed and tried to run the second I opened my eyes. Remembered everything I was forced to see every year of the Hunger Games since I was born. It was the only thing I could never find joy in. But I thought, _everything'll be okay_.

I opened my eyes, sweat slipping down my face as I sat up and looked around frantically. I saw no one there, the only noise being crickets and other insects outside the window. I eventually calmed down, but I was still scared.

"Had a nightmare, Sis?"

The voice that brought me out of my thoughts was so much smaller than mine. So was its owner, right below me. Dark, skinny arms wrapped around my also–skinny waist, and a small brown face looked up at me. His name was Rye. Seeing him made me smile.

"Not anymore." I hugged my brother, and snuggled the top of his head while asking, "What about you?"

"Not anymore," he said, mocking me. Though it only made me laugh. Rye's grip got tighter around my waist before he whispered, "Will you be okay?"

"Of course," I reassured him, knowing what he meant.

It made me happy that he would be so worried over me, that he might have even had a nightmare of me being sent away. It was touching, though I didn't want him to have those kinds of dreams. Not then. Not ever.

"Now sleep," I whispered back.

I woke up about eight hours later. My brother Rye slept soundly on the other side of the bed, arms tucked into his chest. Whereas I lay all over the place, arms over my head, legs wide open, and hair spilling every which way.

I blinked my eyes open, not used to the extra sleep. It had to be at least seven; I usually got up at four-thirty or five. The reaping allowed my family to sleep in.

In a matter of minutes, my hair was in the usual short ponytail, bangs cutting off just above my eyes. It was my usual look, but it wouldn't be like this for long. Later on, Mommy was going to do something special. She said it would be a surprise every year, always something different.

After my hair was done, my pajamas (which were really just a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved shirt) were covered by a white apron with the occasional smudge on it. I started to make breakfast.

Luckily, an old friend my mom used to know ran into me yesterday. He gave me a few things despite the burdens of his own life. I almost felt bad taking it. But it was nice to make something new this morning. I bought four thin pieces of bread, and milk a few days ago (which I didn't think had spoiled over yet), and I made four steaming bowls of porridge with the oats from the man. We'd been saving some bananas for a special day. To some this meal would have been a godsend. Truly, we were just lucky. My family wasn't rich, but we were better off than most of the people in our district. And that was something that I thanked my real dad for, wherever he might have been.

Not long after, everyone was awake, my mom and Daddy Hibiscus being the last. Unlike me and Rye, my mom and dad had had to work late last night. I never heard them come in.

Breakfast was digested in less than an hour, so it was only about nine o'clock.

I turned to my mom, as she was talking to Daddy Hibiscus. "Mommy! Mommy! Can I see the dress now?!"

She laughed, probably knowing I would ask. "After you take your bath. We want you to look your best, don't we?" she said, winking at me.

I nodded, jumping with joy and anticipation. "Of course!"

As I ran to the washroom to take my bath, I thought I heard some mumbling.

After my bath, I ran to my and Rye's room. The cloth around me was too thin, and my shoulders were exposed, chilling me to the bone. But I endured it. Even princesses had to endure something before becoming beautiful.

In a few minutes, my mom was in the room with a brush in one hand, and something else wrapped in plastic in the other.

_It must be the dress! I wonder what it looks like! I wonder how Mommy is going to do my hair? I hope it complements the dress_._ It probably will – Mommy has excellent taste when it comes to fashion_._ Though her taste buds are dead_.

I giggled at the thought of her cooking this morning. The toast would probably have been burnt, and the porridge might have even evaporated in the pan. I covered my mouth, trying to stifle giggles. She already knew I was laughing, but if she ever found out what I was laughing about. . .I'm sure Mommy would have messed with my outfit in some kind of way. I wanted to look forward to something, at least.

Thinking about the Capitol sent a chill down my spine. My hand shot for the gold necklace around my neck. _Somehow, I know that Daddy will save me_. I breathed slowly as I held onto the circular thing.

"Farro?" my mom called, worry showing on her face.

"I'm fine," I said, smiling brightly at her, while removing my hand from the necklace. She sighed out of relief. "But mommy," I started, looking thoroughly confused.

"What is it?"

"When did I move to the bed?"

Somehow in my daze, I moved from the middle of the room to the bed, and my hair was no longer in its neat ponytail with bangs – it was out and messy. Sort of like this morning.

"Maybe you should pay more attention," she said, humored by my absent–mindedness.

I opened my mouth, about to come up with some excuse, but closed it soon after, not knowing what to retaliate with. I would admit – I did space out sometimes.

Now it was my mom's turn to laugh, as she began to brush my hair. Fortunately I brushed my hair daily, so it went in easily. After a few yelps, my hair was combed nicely, then done in some hairstyle that I couldn't identify by weight.

Afterwards, Mommy had me close my eyes as she dressed me. What she had me wear was definitely not a dress. I wasn't able to see anything until Mommy said it was okay to open my eyes. When I did, I immediately ran out of the room (our only mirror was in the living room). Gasping, I saw my hair in a topknot, and the cutest outfit I had ever worn: a frilly green and black shirt with a black sash, held up by a black strap behind my neck, and a hot pink, heart–shaped button on the sash. The bottom of the shirt was dotted with black frills, and black hearts on the top.

I also had on black leggings that stopped just below my knees, and hot pink gloves (the fact that my fingertips were showing meant that they were solely for fashion).

On my feet were amazingly cute green and black boots to complement the shirt. The boots covered about half the distance between my knee and ankle, although my mom obviously knew about the distance and covered the rest with long black socks.

As I was continuously gawking at my appearance, giggling and twirling like an idiot in the mirror, Daddy Hibiscus came out in his own black tux – probably the only color our district could afford. I smiled brightly when I saw his tie; it was a nice bright purple. Mom was probably the one who wrestled the thing onto him. Despite his calm and caring nature, Daddy Hibiscus hated dressing formally. Each year, he shouted about how uncomfortable he was. But he looked happy this morning.

I ran to him, smothering myself in his loving embrace.

"You look amazing," he said. His smiles were so gentle and beautiful. I sometimes wondered if he knew it.

My face stretched as I tried to copy his smile. Though it didn't seem to have the same effect, as Daddy Hibiscus laughed.

"Sis! Sis!"

Rye ran down our small hallway toward me. I let go of Daddy Hibiscus to get a better look.

Rye was in the same style tux that his dad was sporting. Of course, his was much smaller, though still too big for him. Wherever Mommy bought them didn't have one in his size. Besides that, the only other noticeable difference was the hot pink tie near his neck. It was messy and looked completely wrong.

"You tried to tie it yourself, didn't you?"

He averted his gaze guiltily. "It was too tight," he mumbled.

I shook my head, though a smile was still pasted on my face as I tied it for him properly.

"You'll make a great wife someday," my mom teased as she walked into the room in her stunning purple dress.

It was probably something Daddy bought when she was young, a long time ago. It didn't seem to fit too well; it looked almost suffocating. But as my mom liked to say at times, 'Beauty is pain.'

"Whoa, whoa. We seem to be getting a little ahead of ourselves, don't we? Marriage will be a _very_ long time from now," said Daddy Hibiscus.

Mommy rolled her eyes, as I giggled.

The next few minutes were full of lively conversation, as we talked about anything besides the reaping. The television was never touched, though we probably should have watched it.

We headed out at about 12:45. There was no reason to go separately, and it gave us enough time to get to the square.

My house was located somewhere between the square and the fence, so our walk wasn't too long. But it did take a while to get there. I didn't see any of my friends; that was normal. We decided last year that we didn't have to meet up, 'cause there was no reason to worry.

Oh! Please forgive me.

I should probably tell you that Aster, Amaryllis, Freesia, and I decided to volunteer for one another. It was a sort of reassurance so we wouldn't be all that frightened. Freesia was the one who decided that it would be a friendship test.

Last year, none of us were called, so nothing happened. I hoped it was that way again.

"Farro, you have to go and sign in," my mom said.

I blinked a few seconds, realizing that I was panting while holding my necklace again. I did that a lot.

"O–okay," I said, my voice starting to crack as I let go of the circular thing.

She looked worried. I didn't want to leave her like that, so I smiled. Hopefully she wouldn't hear me crying inside.

I hugged Rye, then Daddy Hibiscus, and got in line to sign in. As I gradually got closer, I felt the blood drain from my face. I hated the prick. It was like a wake–up call that it was really happening.

As I gave the woman my hand, which was shaking violently, she looked at my face. She said nothing and continued with the process.

By the time it was over, I was in the thirteen–year–olds' section, looking around worriedly for one of my friends' faces. Yesterday all four of us were picked to participate in the official reaping. I was able to put on a strong front for them, but I made the mistake of crying in front of Rye before bedtime, which was when he slipped into my bed to comfort me. I didn't want him to be like me when he went through this. He was strong, but. . .

"Farro!" I heard my name from afar, and followed it to the edge of the thirteen–year–olds' section, noticing Freesia calling me from the Fifteens with a goofy grin. "Just checkin'," she said.

Next to her, Aster and Amaryllis turned to smile at me too.

"Good luck!" That was Aster.

"And don't forget the promise." Then Amaryllis. The other two looked at her sourly. Not that she cared; she shrugged, then disappeared back into the crowd, before they followed.

I sank into a sea of thirteen–year–old girls. A lot of them were shaking. Some were even hyperventilating. This only made me more nervous, but I promised myself not to freak out, at least not yet.

Then, in only a few seconds, our escort – um. . .P. . .Pallas Lenore – stumbled onto the stage. Happy as ever, in that same infuriating outfit. Bubblegum–colored hair, and an odd–looking, cream–colored suit. Maybe that looked good once, a hundred years ago.

Actually, I'm sorry. I should calm down and continue the story.

I ignored the entire introduction only because she was so distracting; I'm normally not that snappy about someone, but I get very critical when it comes to clothes.

After my small blackout, I came to just in time to hear Pallas say, "As always! Ladies first!" Her accent rang through the mike.

As she crossed to the clear ball, I felt my heart pound against my chest.

All of a sudden, it stopped altogether.

_Daddy, save me_.

How should I explain what happened when Pallas called my name? I suppose you could say. . .nothing made sense anymore. I could barely breathe. Still, I somehow made it to the stage, trying to steady my breathing only to fail miserably when I looked at the crowd beneath my feet. They were so lucky.

But then I remembered: the promise!

Aster looked completely horrified. Freesia wept silently. Amaryllis averted her gaze completely. I remember wondering, _what type of reactions are those_? I hoped for some type of reassurance, and prayed that when Pallas called for volunteers. . .Amaryllis shook her head. I prayed that was a joke. Only it wasn't.

I knew it deep down from the beginning. But I had hoped I wasn't lying to myself. So when the realization hit, I broke down.

Weeping on national television wasn't necessarily a good thing. In fact, it was a terrible thing. I knew I should stop. I should be strong. For Rye, for Mommy, for Daddy Hibiscus, and for myself. But this was the one time I couldn't pull myself together. I was on my knees, crying my eyes out. I felt all eyes on me, before Peacekeepers took me away.

I don't know what happened after that, but obviously the other tribute was picked. I was taken to some room. If I were in better spirits, I would probably have gone crazy, touching everything I could get my hands on. But I wasn't, so I sat there until my family came in.

Rye was the first to burst through the doors. He ran to me and jumped in my lap, hugging as tightly as he possibly could. I said nothing. I did nothing.

Slowly, Daddy Hibiscus came through, holding my mom in his arms. His eyes were dried up, and she was still sniffling.

"Hi," she said in–between them.

As you can probably guess, I said nothing.

In fact, the entire time I stared into space.

Usually in a time like this, I would have grabbed the necklace Daddy sent me so many years ago. I couldn't lift a finger. I couldn't stop thinking about my _friends_' faces. About how they had always treated me.

I constantly ran all over the place to get them things, and they left me places. I thought it was a joke, so I came back. I guess it was my fault, though. For trying to prove that I could make at least those friends. I didn't know why no one liked me.

_I guess there's nothing I can do about it now._

I was going into the Games. I was going to die there.

I did not get to the train on my own either.

My family was weeded one after the other from the room, in as much turmoil as I was. Rye actually had to be pried from my lap; he was kicking and screaming while going out the door.

I woke up. Someone—whoever they were—was banging on my bedroom door, yelling.

I looked out the window to see daylight already half–gone.

I said nothing to the person behind the door. If they truly wanted me, they should come in and get me. It wasn't like I knew how to lock it; I doubted it could be locked, who knew what the tributes would do to themselves before the Games? The thought of suicide had crossed my mind, but I knew that leaving my family that way would only make them feel worse.

All of a sudden, the door opened.

"Farro! It's dinner time, come and eat now," Pallas said.

But I just laid there. There was no way she would—no, she couldn't move me by force, even if she wanted to. And that was the only way she was going to get me to come.

She sighed. It seemed she had finally given up hope.

"Fine. Do what you like!" Pallas stormed out of the room.

I rolled over and watched her leave. _I think I'm still tired_.

* * *

...

* * *

**Trevon Rindez, 15 ~ District 11 Male**

**kb5000**

I swing myself off my bed, feeling more tired than when I went to sleep. My mother is toasting bread in the kitchen, while my father is making something else for breakfast.

My brother Matt is at the table, looking nervous and excited at the same time. The nervousness I understand. What I _don't_, however. . .

"Good morning, Dad. Mom. Hey, Matty, what are you so excited about?"

"Dad had enough money to buy eggs! That's why it smells so good, Trevon!" He has enough energy to fly to the Capitol and back twice.

"Buddy, if you don't stop bouncing, you're gonna' be a human cannonball!"

Matt giggles.

Then Mom tells me to sit, so we can eat. Dad scoops a pile of eggs onto my plate, and after thanking him, my hand snatches a piece of toast and I'm smearing strawberry jam on it before I notice. I take a bite of the eggs and enjoy the flavour as I chew. No one seems to make an attempt to talk.

Soon enough, my breakfast is gone, and I'm in the bedroom, pawing through drawers for something that fits and is not covered in dirt. Eventually, I spot a green dress shirt and black trousers that are suitable.

I pull out a blue dress shirt that's too small for me, but will fit Matt perfectly. I smile and sneak up behind him. Tossing the fabric at his head, I tell him to get dressed. He looks at me with fear in his eyes.

Then I remember it's his first reaping. God, how'd I forget that?

I crouch beside him. "Hey, your name's only in there once. You'll be fine."

I refused to let him take any tesserae, because I couldn't bear to see him go in. Be slaughtered like twenty-three others. I'd feel like the worst big brother on the planet.

"But. . .but. . ." He begins to argue with my logic.

"Even if you're picked, I'll. . ." I take a deep breath. "I'll volunteer for you."

He smiles, though he's still scared. I've just added his slip to my twenty.

He walks away to get dressed, and once he's done, we walk to the square. The Capitol has spruced it up with ribbons, speakers, and cameras, and made it look presentable.

I spot Quinn, and run over to her. Her dark red hair sparkles in the sunlight, and her emerald green eyes are consumed with fear. I lower to her height and kiss her on the cheek. "Hey, it's gonna' be okay. It won't be you."

"How do you know that, Trev'? I'm in there five times!" Quinn exclaims, and I'm slightly jealous. Being a merchant's daughter, Quinn has always had more to eat than my family.

I take her hand in mine, my dark skin clashing with her tanned. "Listen, there are lots of other kids there with more slips than you. Understood?"

She nods, and with a kiss, we head our separate ways. Even though she's a week and three days older, I'm always the more mature one in our relationship. I file into my spot, wanting this to be over.

Our escort, Pallas Lenore, teeters onto the stage in a pair of ridiculous shoes and gives us the biggest smile I've ever seen.

"Happy Hunger Games!" Pallas squeals in her stupid accent. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

She struts to the glass ball on her right. "Ladies first!" Her perfect-looking hand dives into the ball. I pray Quinn's name isn't called; the guilt that I wasn't there to protect her would plague me for the rest of my life.

"Farro Bremer!"

Not until I see the thirteen-year-old walking to the stage do I feel relief. It's not Quinn. Thank God. Now all that's left to worry about is me and Matt. I still feel bad for the girl, though; probably won't win, as horrible as that sounds.

When I hear the boy's name, I'm overjoyed, but frightened to my core – it's not Matt, I don't have to volunteer. Because it's me going up there anyway.

I raise my head and walk to the stage on shaky legs. I stand, tensed, beside Pallas in her ridiculous cream-coloured suit and bubblegum-blue hair, waiting to get out of the spotlight.

I look at Quinn, who has tears in her eyes. My family's the same, with Matt clutching our mother. As I shake hands with Farro, one thought is bouncing around my head: I may never see any of them again. As we are whisked off-stage, I tell myself that is a lie.

...

I stare at the fields, zooming by at lightning speed.

Goodbyes were horrible. Matt and Mom couldn't even speak, just sob while clinging to me for dear life. After a few minutes, Dad grasped my hand, and with tears in his eyes he spoke only five words: "You have to win, son."

I stared right into his eyes and replied with a determined look, "I promise I will."

The Peacekeepers stormed in to take them away, and Matt and Mom got hysterical. As they were dragged out, Matt screamed my name over and over again. "TREVON! TREVON!"

"I'll see you soon, okay?" I yelled back, with a sad smile.

I sat back down, and was looking out the window when Quinn raced into my arms. Her tears were soaking my shirt, and she looked like a mess.

"Hey, it's okay. I'll be back," I said, pushing her hair off her face. She looks like an average merchant's daughter, but she's more beautiful than anything I've ever seen.

"You don't know that, Trev'! You may not make it a day!" she screamed between sobs. I didn't like thinking of that possibility.

"No. Matt's only twelve, and. . .I can't leave him with my parents alone, because there's no telling how they'd react to my death. And I can't leave you. I love you too much. You're a huge part of my life, and I want to come back and continue on with our lives, together."

My eyes started to tear up as Quinn reached down and handed me an old silver chain. "Since you won't be here for our first anniversary, I'll give you your gift now. It was my grandfather's, then my father's, and now it's yours. Could it be your token?"

"Of course." I took it and placed it on my neck. It felt perfect.

I kissed Quinn until the Peacekeepers took her away.

Now I'm here, on the amazing train, watching everything blur together. As I try to make out trees, my hand shoots to my head and I clench my jaw, trying to fight off the pain of a headache; it's one of the worse ones. As I'm about to give in, it's gone in a cloud of smoke.

I know why this happens. When I was nine, I fell from a tree while picking oranges, and received a concussion that was so bad I'll never fully recover. I have to resist the urge to fall unconscious. I also have a tendency to forget things easily. My family and Quinn are understanding, but I still feel like a liability. I'm worried it will happen in the Games, and I'll be picked off. Gone because of a stupid child's mistake.

Pallas walks in and tells me dinner is ready, and we best not be late because that would be rude.

_Stupid Capitolites_, I think as we walk to the dining room. They should learn to not be so shallow.


	13. District 12 Reaping

**Rhiannon Woodsville, 15 ~ District 12 Female**

**LydiaXuning****–**fic

I slid into an empty seat, taking in bread, greens, and fish from the corner of my eye. _That much_? My eyes narrowed slightly.

It wasn't that I wasn't grateful or downright _relieved_, but why today? Why only occasionally? And most of all—a feast before the reaping? To keep up the façade, I suppose.

Even in the community home, where the kids at least had a bit more food, every now and then I still had to witness Mia and the others suffering.

Like yesterday night: Mia didn't get any bread at all, and I had to give half of mine.

My eyes scanned the room. Her usual seat was on my right, and since I was fairly sure there was no one beside me when I came in, there was only one thing I could think of: she hadn't come down. I debated whether to take extra food.

I reached to scoop some greens when I caught sight of a little figure with black curls. Relief seeped through me, only to be replaced by alarm at her puffy, red–rimmed eyes. I dropped my spoon, my arms instinctively wrapping around her.

"It'll be okay. Don't worry," I said in the most reassuring voice I could muster, my right hand caressing her locks. Was I saying the right thing? I continued to comfort her, desperately pushing what might happen to the back of my mind. Mia sobbed harder, her tears dampening the front of my shirt.

It was the thirty-eighth reaping. Where little kids starting from the age of twelve till teenagers aged eighteen would be picked and sent off to the Hunger Games. Ehan, my elder brother, was picked five years ago. Was that going to happen to me today?

Or worse—No! She was only twelve; she had a future ahead of her! I supposed it was kind of a blessing that Mia had been in the community home since she was ten. In District 12 at least, home kids didn't have to take tesserae.

I'd only come last year, aged fourteen. I'd taken out tesserae since I was twelve. It meant that I had ten slips in the reaping ball.

"Keep quiet, will you?" the caretaker barked in Mia's direction, adding a few strings of profanities.

My head whipped up, eyes blazing as I took in the sharp outline of the caretaker's face. Everything about her screamed meanness. Feeling Mia's ragged breath and muffled sobs, I did the last thing anyone would ever dream of. "Can't you go somewhere else!" I felt a twinge of satisfaction as she flinched slightly.

The dining hall went eerily silent. I took a second to process what I had done, and the grave consequences.

"You. Leave. _Now_," the caretaker said through gritted teeth, scraping her chair back.

But I had a stubborn streak and a temper, and I felt them flaring now.

I stood, willing her to make the next move. Did I expect her to take a swing at me? Slap me? I didn't care.

Mia's trembling hand reached for me, and I turned and saw her scared, vulnerable dark brown eyes. Why hadn't I thought before flying into an impulse? She could be in as much trouble as I am, because of my stupidness. And she needed to eat; she hadn't touched her plate.

_Breathe_. In. Out. In. Out. I threw one last ferocious glare at the now–smug caretaker before stalking out of the hall. I seriously wished there was a door for me to slam.

_Enough,_ I scolded myself. That could cost Mia even more.

I didn't know why we'd bonded well. Maybe she reminded me of how Ehan and I used to spend time together.

I went to my schoolbag and stared at the rough y–shape of the slingshot inside. Ehan and I made slingshots—it was something like a pastime—from the excess wood Mom didn't use at her food stand in the Hob: an illegal place where most people from the Seam made their living.

The Hob was a former coal warehouse, so when the excess wood caught fire it took my mom with it, giving me a few burns and placement in the community home. My dad had died in a coal mining accident, and Ehan—of course—in the Games.

On the night before Ehan's reaping, we started making a slingshot to distract ourselves from the next day.

"That end's a bit uneven," Ehan had remarked, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"Yeah. Think we could mend it later," I'd replied, for it was past midnight.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to shake out the guilt. Like the previous times, it didn't work. My left hand found the bracelet on my right.

It wasn't a bracelet, actually. It was a few rubber bands bound together. My best friend Larua's mom ran a hair salon at the Hob, and gave them to me a few weeks after my dad was killed.

I was ten, and Ehan was my lone source of comfort. He bound the rubber bands and taught me to do it. They were also his token.

I stood shakily. I missed Ehan so much that it hurt.

Pulling myself together, I changed into a white dress, the only decent clothing I had.

I didn't miss the caretaker's hawk–eye as I walked out to gather at the front of the community home. Everyone departed for the reaping.

...

I was led to where the other fifteen–year–olds stood. I tried looking for Larua but couldn't find her, so she should be on the other end.

Beside me were kids I occasionally saw either in the Seam or in school. I felt a little relieved not to have to make small talk; chats about homework and the weather only made the nausea in my stomach roll deeper.

When the clock struck two, the mayor began droning on about the history of the Games. The message was clear: the Capitol would always have control over the people.

Why couldn't they get it over with?

Exactly on cue, Flux Cap (District 12's escort) stepped to the reaping ball with the girls' names. I was holding my breath so hard that when he read the name, it was crystal clear.

"Rhiannon Woodsville!"

The silence following was deafening. I had never heard any silence this loud before. By then, I wondered why no one was walking forward.

And I realized _I_ was the one called. I let out a ragged breath and mechanically walked forward. Peacekeepers surrounded me.

_I'm reaped._ That was my only clear thought as I retraced my brother's steps.

Mia. Larua. Who else would I be leaving behind?

I honestly almost regretted not apologizing to the caretaker.

Flux grinned idiotically, and I raised my chin a fraction in defiance. _If he thinks this is all a game, I'll prove him wrong_.

Of course. I kept forgetting it _was_ a game to the Capitol.

Flux then planted his hand in the boys' reaping ball, and automatically I thought, _Not Ehan_. Then I realized Ehan wasn't there, and everything began blurring.

"Miles Dreft!" Flux called out.

I thought I might faint, as I registered the shock in the grey eyes of the boy mounting the stage. '_He has younger siblings at home!_' I wanted to scream.

A sister and brother, who I'd noticed when I lived in the Seam. They needed him.

So what now—I had to plunge a dagger into him? Let the stone in my slingshot fly at him? Or watch him be killed by someone else, unable to help?

Flux motioned for us to shake hands, and I didn't meet Miles's eyes. Why must there ever be a Games?

...

"Rhiannon," Larua said. We pulled each other into an embrace.

What should I tell Larua? 'Please don't cry over my death'? It seemed nonsensical.

So I hugged her tighter.

When we broke apart, her face was damp. I fought back tears, determined not to make this harder for her.

"Thank you. All these years—" I choked out.

More tears fell. "You can, Rhia'," she said, before she was led away by Peacekeepers.

_I can?_

Larua must have known in her heart that I wouldn't come back. Those Careers, with their proper training, being well–fed…I didn't stand a chance against them. And I couldn't actually kill someone, could I? I wouldn't be able to live through the thought, let alone do it.

Ehan, Mom, Dad—if they were alive I would fight everything to come home. Now, there wasn't really a point to surviving.

Mia and Larua, there were others who could be with them.

So my mission was to make all of them proud while I wasn't yet dead. The question was, _how_?

...

Our mentor, Flasive Maller, ate silently. Throughout the meal she kept giving me some kind of look.

_Oh well,_ I thought. She must have seen my and Ehan's resemblance.

I didn't eat much. Looking at the rich food made me sick.

Sick because people were starving back home and the Capitol was drowning us in luxury, or because of the food itself, I wasn't sure which.

I settled for some fish and potatoes.

Miles was quiet as well. When I thought about his family and home, I felt a pang of guilt. My death wouldn't be much. But robbing him of them seemed inexcusable.

We watched a recap of the reapings. I didn't pay much attention, but the tributes from 1, 2, and 4 looked lethal like always.

And maybe I'd gone insane, but the male from 9 looked that vicious as well. A 9 tribute having the same mindset as a Career…I didn't know what to think.

I laid in bed, in luxurious silk and goodness knows what else instead of on a thin mattress. All my thoughts kept swirling back to Ehan's death. _Metal meets metal. Clanking of weapons. Spurting of blood…_I clenched my jaw, trying frantically to see past those gory details.

The train roared on its tracks. Towards the unknown.

* * *

...

* * *

**Miles Dreft, 14 ~ District 12 Male**

**CrazyTARDIS825**

My mother wakes us up nice and early. She has to. It's reaping day. I'm still tired, because I couldn't sleep; I couldn't get the garish images from previous Games out of my head. The Capitol has been showing marathons of re-runs for the past few weeks, giving even the heartiest of people nightmares.

Adric is sitting at the table, chewing grain slop distastefully. I eye my own bowl in revulsion. He, Amrose, and I – we all put our names in extra times, and I'm thankful we at least have the crap to eat. Otherwise, we would have died a long time ago.

Mother urges us to eat, but I feel as if my stomach is filled with a swarm of angry tracker jackers. I'm afraid that if I force myself to swallow the vile liquid-ish stuff, it's just going to come right back up. I force myself, spoonful by tiny spoonful, trying to ignore the taste. Words aren't needed – we all feel the tension, the possibility.

I'm the first done. I wash my bowl, and heat some water; I carefully take it into the bathroom and dump it into the bathtub, then strip from my nightclothes and tentatively lower myself into the tub. The water feels good on my skin, and I lean back for a moment and enjoy it. The reaping isn't for another few hours, after all.

Ultimately, though, I am obligated to wash my body and hair. I hesitate to get out of the water; I feel as though it will protect me from the horror that lies in the real world. I put on my reaping clothes, which consist of a simple light grey shirt, dark pants, and black shoes. I comb my hair and leave the room so that my sister can bathe, and Adric after her.

...

My family stands together in our dirty, drafty, dank, sad, rundown home. Amrose is in a beautiful white dress with roses sown into the hem, and Adric is dressed much like me. When two o'clock comes, we make our way to the square – the big cobble expanse that leads to the Justice Building. The square is usually a lot happier, with people bustling around on their daily business. But it's not today.

Amrose and I get signed in, and we go to the fourteen-year-olds' pen. It reminds me of the animals in District 10 – the way they're cut off from the rest of the world, unable to escape. Somehow, I'm not as scared as I should be. I see my parents with the other adults, who don't have to worry about being kidnapped and forced to fight. Amrose gives me a reassuring smile. Only now do I begin to feel apprehensive. My muscles tense as I remember past Hunger Games, and the brutal deaths that commemorate them.

The escort for our district, Flux Cap, is sitting next to the mayor. Before the mayor herself stands and gives the speech telling of the failed rebellion and the story of the Hunger Games. I zone out because I've heard it at least fifteen times, ever since I was little; I could probably recite it if I was told to.

Flux stands, beaming as always. He's been in the business of sending us to our deaths since the Twenty-Fifth. He grins at us as if we're fat animals waiting to be carved and served on golden plates.

"Ladies first!" Flux chirps. He struts to the ball that holds at least one of all eligible girls' names in District 12, and digs his hand around before grabbing a slip of paper, pulling it out, and going back to the microphone. "Rhiannon Woodsville!"

My heart skips as I recognize the name, and the girl, who steps tentatively up to the stage. She's a year older than me, but we've been in some classes. And I occasionally see her around the Seam. I know she's from the community home, and her brother survived fairly long in the Thirty-Third Hunger Games.

Flux now strides to the boys' ball. Digging again, he produces another slip of paper, and all the while I'm thinking, Not me, not me, not me. "Miles Dreft!"

My heart stops. I get goosebumps, and feel the color drain from my face. Flux smiles with his too-white teeth, and I do nothing but stand, dumbstruck. My brain screams at me to move. To run away, or go to the stage. But my legs won't comply.

Someone is shouting in anguish, probably Mother. I can't hear any words. It sounds as if I'm underwater; the noise is distant and mutated.

The sun suddenly seems way too bright, and my vision swirls. Suddenly, I'm afraid I might faint.

Someone prods me in the back, and I slam down to Earth, hard. I force my legs to shakily, mechanically, walk to the stage and stand next to Flux. I see Mother crying into Father's shirt, Adric wailing, and Amrose with tears in her eyes as well. My friends look at me sympathetically. I struggle against the lump in my throat. Cameras are everywhere, looking for anything that might make me look weaker than the others – aside from my malnourished body and thin limbs.

Flux tells Rhiannon and me to shake hands. I don't meet the eyes of my now-competitor. He ushers us into the Justice Building as the citizens of District 12 begin to depart, and I prepare myself for the heartrending goodbyes I will have to endure for the next hour.

Rhiannon and I are lead down separate hallways. The room I am ushered into is vast and posh. It is comfortably furnished, and the lights give off a warm glow. This does not help to comfort me; to the outside world, it may not seem like I'm terribly fazed, but on the inside I am slowly breaking down. I collapse into a plush armchair and breathe slowly. My face heats up, and I begin to shake, the full force of the news assaulting me.

I only get about two minutes alone before the door opens, and my family is led in by Peacekeepers. The door shuts as one Peacekeeper mutters a barely audible "fifteen minutes" and leaves.

My family rushes to my stiff form lying on the couch. Adric clings to my leg. Father's already-sunken face has deep worry lines carved into it. Mother is a wreck – tears mask her face, and her eyes are red and splotchy. I don't blame her; I'd be crying too, if it didn't ensure my instant death in the Bloodbath. Adric wails. Amrose clutches my hand.

Our parents tease us that we know each other better than we know ourselves, and that we can feel one another's pain. Well, I'm not sure about the physical, but emotional pain is obviously strung in-between our beings. I hope against hope Amrose won't be able to feel my death when it comes, as it undoubtedly will.

No one says anything for a long time.

Finally, Amrose detaches her hand from mine, in order to take a string from around her neck. She holds it out to me. The string has a little glass vial on the end of it, and inside is what appears to be coal dust.

"Take this," Amrose says. "You're allowed to bring one thing into the arena to remind you of home, and what better reminder of District Twelve than coal?" She smiles sadly.

I take the necklace from her, smiling as well, and hug my twin tightly. "Thanks. I'll keep it until the very end."

I turn to Adric, who is still clinging to my leg.

"You have to win, Miles! If you don't, who's going to teach me Algebra?" he asks despairingly.

"I'll try, little buddy," I say to the seven-year-old.

I turn to my parents.

"Miles. . .oh, my little boy!" Mother hugs me tightly. She finally seems to get ahold of herself, and wipes her eyes.

Father doesn't cry, but he looks pretty close to it. "You have to understand. The kids from the other districts, they will do whatever it takes to win. Stay away from them. Train hard," he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. I just nod, still in shock.

The Peacekeeper says our time is up. I hug my family, and he has to practically pry us apart.

As they are pushed out, Amrose turns, puts the first three fingers of her right hand to her lips, and holds it out to me. She's saying goodbye, I think, collapsing back on the couch.

My friends, Amy and Henry Falker, enter the room. I walk over and hug them both.

"Miles, I want you to listen to me, and I want you to listen close," Amy begins. "There will be all kinds of things in that arena, no one can know what until you get there. But whatever you do, don't go into that Bloodbath; no matter how tempting it is, no matter how hungry you get, grab the closest thing and run in the opposite direction. You're fast, Miles, and if you get your hands on a knife, you'll at least stand a chance. Think of who you'd be leaving if you gave up."

I nod at Amy, a new determination filling my stomach. It blossoms and warms me, and the fear melts away. For now, at least.

With one final hug, the siblings turn and leave. I am in the posh room alone, and for the rest of the hour, no more people come to say goodbye to me. After a long time, a Peacekeeper comes to tell me it is time to get on the train. I follow him wordlessly out onto the square, and into a car. Cars are rare in District 12. Since it's small and poor, we walk almost everywhere.

The car brings Rhiannon and me to the train station. Cameras are already swarming. I try to avoid eye contact with the lenses and simply continue walking.

...

The mentor, Flasive Maller, stolidly eats her meal. Flux warns us not to eat too much or else we'll be sick, and I take his advice. I only eat a small serving of each course. But it's all I can do not to down my hot chocolate.

The adults make idle conversation. I eat, not paying much attention. The window I am looking out is locked. All the windows that a person can fit through are locked at all times; that way, the tributes don't throw themselves out of the train.

Flux tells us that dessert is served in the gathering room. I follow him and Flasive into a room with a large TV in it. The anthem is playing, and I know recaps for the reapings will be shown in a minute or two.

I watch the District 1 reaping. And then 2, and so on. None of them I really pay attention to, even though I should. I see Rhiannon get picked, and then me. The anthem plays again, and the screen darkens.

Flux stands and claps once. "All right then!" he chirps. "You two had best be off to bed – big day tomorrow!"

I leave to my room, and find a pair of warm fleece pajamas. I don't sleep yet, though; there is too much on my mind. In a week, my life will be turned upside down into fear and pain. I know I can't win. I think about my family and friends back home, hopeful that I am going to return. They will cry when I am killed, and all I can do is try and make sure it's painless, so they don't have to hear me scream.

I try and let the memories go, clutching at the coal vial around my neck. If there were any time to cry, it would be now. So I do. But not for long.


	14. Chariot Prep

**Ampere Henry, 14 ~ District 5 Female**

**daydreamer626**

My whole body hurts. And it smells.

…

Apparently, the girls must not have any body hair going into the arena. I tried asking if they could use a contraption that painlessly removed toe hair.

_ "Oh no, no, no, no, dearie," one of the people—who was a neon yellow—laughed._

And when I asked about undressing myself?

_ "If you come out of the arena, you'll know that there are no secrets between you and your prep team," explained a winged woman with bug–like eyes._

"I guess that's true either way," I grumbled, shutting them up as they brushed and washed my hair, soaked my body in various scented solutions, and polished my nails.

…

Five or six hours later, I'm going nuts staring at the clock. I sit on a couch in a simple white robe, waiting.

I hope the chariot costumes won't be too bad. Being the Power district, 5's tributes tend to look similar to 3's (the Technology district). As long as I can remember, it's been light bulbs and solar panels with little variation.

The door creaks open, and my stylist walks in.

Despite her orange hair and light blue skin, she doesn't look as gruesome as some of the other Capitolites. However, her nails are so pointed that I believe they could quite easily puncture a hole in just about any wall.

"Am–per–ay, is it? I'm Boadicea, your stylist."

"Actually, my name is pronounced 'Am–peer'."

"All the same, you've seen past tributes as light bulbs and solar panels, correct?"

"They do nothing but make us look fat and undesirable," I blurt.

"True, true!" Boadicea says, unaware that it was a subtle dig at her. "Everyone knows District Five is all about power, but they don't know from what source it comes." She presses a few buttons, and thirty seconds later the table between us is loaded with food. "I'm sure you're hungry, dear; I don't think you even had any breakfast!"

"I haven't eaten since nine." It's true. Our floor was invaded by Capitolites as soon as I swallowed my last bite of eggs.

Ever since, I've been cleaned, plucked, and molded into someone I've never seen before.

"Well, help yourself while I get your costume. I should be back with the team in half an hour!" She bustles out of the room while I grab a plate and load it with meat, blue rice, and chocolate-covered strawberries.

Judging by the way Boadicea was talking, I'm guessing I can expect something that won't make me look desirable. With any luck, I'll at least be in a skirt.

I wonder what's being done to Austin.

…

My half hour of solitude ends too quickly. The door opens, and four pairs of feet hurry toward me.

"Oh, she's so cute!"

"I love what you did to her hair, Aeolus!"

I look at one of the mirrors stuffed into the room, and see that it's been made sleek and shiny.

"Oh, her hair was a pleasure!" says the lone guy, Aeolus—whose makeup practically suffocates him.

His appearance aside, it's never looked better. It's braided with thin strands; he calls it a fishtail.

"Okay, so Ampere, I want you to close your eyes…."

…

An hour and a half later, I'm allowed to open them.

There's a windmill wheel attached to my head that spins when I move. My dress is a beautiful silver, with subtle touches of shiny stuff. Little patterns of swirls, accented by grey beads the size of strawberry seeds. My eyes also have the grey stuff swirling around them, ending on my eyelids.

"And what's Austin? A giant mushroom cloud to represent nuclear power?" Despite myself, I have to laugh at how well it would suit him, what with his syn—

Shut up. He's a nice kid.

"No, he's representing solar energy."

I can't stop my giggles. Austin—the sun? That seems so ironic considering his stoic personality.

"There's nothing funny about the sun." The woman with neon yellow skin pouts.

"Well, it's better than being a giant light bulb."

* * *

**Ramie Ortega, 12 ~ District 8 Male**

**YazminDominguez**

I was woken by a disturbing sound on my door—Ferronia was smacking it, as if it had horrible door manners, and screeching at me to wake up. That reminded me of my aunt, and made me miss her more. I threw one of my shoes that lay next to the bed.

After hearing the shoe against the door, Ferronia grunted, and I heard her heels clicking as she walked away. What I would have given for a more…_patient_ escort.

I made my way to the window to see the Capitol itself creeping up behind the mountains.

…

After a warm shower, I smelled of jasmine and wild berries. I pulled on my clean, non–faded outfit and headed to the dining room because I was in the mood for more sausages.

I found Woof, Rena, and Clarily at the table and waved, as I would have done to my family. They nodded or did nothing.

As I sat, an Avox offered me a glass of orange juice, and I accepted with no hesitation. Orange juice. I had never tasted anything like it; it was sweet yet sour at the same time.

After my fifth roll with peach jam, I looked at my companions to find them staring at me. "What?" I said with my mouth full.

Woof chuckled. "Nothing. Just slow down, or you won't fit in your costume."

I'd not even been there a day, so I hadn't eaten _that_ much, and it would be great if I put on more weight. "I'll try," I told him sarcastically.

I glanced in Clarily's direction. She made a gesture to the outer corner of her lips. It took me a while, but I realized she was telling me I had jam on my mouth; I wiped it away and continued eating.

"You're going to meet your stylist, Brietta. Try not to annoy her; she's not very tolerant," Woof informed me.

I nodded, and took a muffin from a tray that an Avox was holding out for me. She was pretty. She had fiery red hair tied back into a bun, and deep blue eyes the color of cobalt.

She reminded me a lot of Cassidy back home, since she had the same qualities; Cassidy was my friend, along with Corduroy, who was slightly smaller than me, with brown hair, light brown eyes, and chocolate–colored skin. I think they did come to see me at the goodbyes; that hour was so confusing, I don't actually remember what they said. I felt horrible that I didn't register them before.

That's when I heard the train screech to a stop, and understood that we had arrived at our destination. I never thought I would step foot in this strange city, but here I was.

…

I was whisked away—off the train to the Remake Center—to be cleaned from my head to my feet. After soaking in tubs of who–knows–what, my prep team beamed down at me, telling me how handsome I was.

I didn't _feel_ handsome; I felt naked and absolutely not myself. My skin shined, was flawless, and smelled of sweet flowers. I hated it. I began to really miss the lingering smell of smoke from the factories.

Ilaria, a woman of maybe about thirty with gold skin and a slim, petite figure, cut my hair so it wasn't in my face anymore. I frowned when I saw the boy in the mirror. He looked clean and well cared for, not like he was getting pampered before slaughter.

...

About an hour and a half before the tribute parade, I waited alone, thinking about what kind of costume I would be put in.

On cue, Brietta stepped into the room, carrying a case that I was sure contained my outfit.

She was so skinny that I could see the bones of her rib cage. She had on a long, flowing dark purple dress that went to right above her ankle (which was also purple). Her makeup consisted of chalk–white skin and lips, with a mix of purple eye shadows below her thin purple eyebrows. The other thing about her that assured you she was a Capitolite was her large, misshapen breasts.

Her hair, on the other hand, was short to her jaw and light brown.

"It's so chilly in here!" Brietta's high–pitched voice exclaimed. It wasn't chilly at all. It was the perfect temperature.

"So you must be Ranie!" she said.

"It's 'Ramie', and yes, that's me," I said distastefully.

"Okay. So, Ramie, stand up—let me take a good look at you." I swallowed and stood. "Hmm," she said, walking slowly around me. "Well, you have a nice build, not too scrawny like the usual tributes I get…but not too muscular either."

She was right. I was built like my father; the little bicep I had, I obtained by carrying Brodie from place to place.

When she exposed what the case held, my mouth fell open—in disgust, and in amazement. _At least I'm not going to be dressed like a clown._

It was a gold fedora made of strange plush, with purple rhinestones along the border; a rich purple blazer made of ramie and cotton fabric, with black needles along the v–line (its neckline was odd, taller than a normal blazer—like a turtleneck, with an opening right under my chin—and its cuffs were a darker shade of velvet purple); a long–sleeved gold silk shirt; dark purple corduroy pants; a simple gold leather belt, and gold loafers.

_This lady is mad._

What I did like was how Brietta used so many fabrics together. It was ridiculous, but I clearly got the meaning. How would the crowd? Unless they were close up, they wouldn't even notice. I was almost sure she didn't think of that.

As soon as I finished gaping, I was told to put it on.

The silk shirt felt cool against my skin. I looked down and realized it had a pocket over my heart; I brought out the rock Brodie gave to me from my jeans, and slipped it in.

An image of my brother flashed in my head, and made my stomach upset and my eyes tear up. _These people are so cruel._ I took deep breaths, and felt a little better. I was afraid the prep team would scold me for having puffy eyes.

The pants were comfortable, but too warm. I slipped into the new loafers. Then the blazer. (Brietta assured that the encrusted needles would not poke me.) The blazer was sort of uncomfortable, since the fabric was rough and stiff, but I liked the feeling of the velvet cuffs against the back of my hand.

Lastly, I put the belt on.

I looked like a giant gold and purple explosion. The gold was supposed to match my blond hair, and the flecks in my eyes. When I asked what the purple meant, Brietta acted like she heard nothing.

My face was checked for any flaws, my hair was combed, and the fedora was situated on my head.

Woof stopped me as I walked to the chariot launch room. He gave me some last–minute advice to act cute and innocent, since the crowd eats that up; I was to wave, smile, and blow a couple kisses.

I was completely breathtaken when I met our horses. "They're beautiful!" They were pure white with gold manes. What fascinated me was how a giant animal could be so tame and calm.

Clarily and I were loaded on our chariot and stationed into position, ready to be released. I braced myself, my nervous stomach threatening to ruin the whole event. I counted to ten, trying to get a grip. I really regretted eating so much.

The worst part was that we had to wait, since we were eighth. It seemed like ages. I wanted to get this over with—so much work and stress, just to enter the stupid Training Center.

Finally, the District 6 chariot was released.

We were up next, after Chariot 7. I readied myself to be observed by every person in Panem, especially the sponsors. My family would be watching.

As I put on my best smile, the chariot moved, and all I could do was hope I wouldn't fall off.

* * *

**Rift Quayl****, 17 ~ District 9 Male**

**wjjmwmsn5**

I place a fierce scowl on my face the moment I see my stylist. Maybe it's because I'm completely exhausted, having decided (stupidly) that I shouldn't sleep a little on the train because I would have to get up again at midnight to enter the Remake Center—a fact that made me almost giddy with excitement.

I didn't go to sleep after collapsing happily onto my Capitol bed in my Capitol pajamas, either. No. I waited, and roamed around and thought for a while (like the idiot I was for just last night), distracted by the city's wondrousness. My plan to stop being so distracted has failed.

I slept a total of six hours last night—falling asleep at 1, waking up at 3; I went back to sleep at 4:30, and woke up at 8:30 to Adele knocking on my door, announcing that it was time for breakfast, and if I liked dinner I should just wait to see what would be on my plate this morning!

So I dragged myself from bed, called to her through the door, "I'm up," in a groggy, tired voice, and went to the bathroom.

I showered, which wasn't as bad as it could have been, I'm sure. But all the buttons, dials, and options were maddening with so little sleep. I ended up with a scentless soap (thankfully), and water that was a bit too cold. The shampoo that spilled out was on the girly side, smelling mostly scentless like the soap but having a hint of lilac fragrance.

Pulling myself back into my room, I dressed in average clothes—the shirt soft cotton and royal blue, regular jeans, white shoes—and went to the dining hall. I ate. The morning, despite my growing tiredness, was normal.

The day went on rather as I expected: talking to Tanson, to Adele, and even a bit to Spelt. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. I was told to find my stylist in some room, and I found the room empty. I waited for her or him. And waited. And nearly fell asleep waiting. It was early when I found the room, so she wasn't late at all.

The prep team finally came, and I was prepared for my stylist: shaved, trimmed, bathed even though I showered this morning, observed, and light touches of makeup were also brushed on my face. They complimented how tan I am, and I told them it's from working in the fields with an eye roll. I was thoroughly angered by them, but I'm not sure why.

And here she is.

I, aggravated and annoyed, cannot believe I was ordered to come here when I would be waiting for so, so long. Perhaps it hasn't been as long as I think it's been; perhaps it _seems_ like it's been hours because I am fighting back the urge to lay my head down, cushioned by my arm, and drift off peacefully…dreaming, dreaming, dreaming…or maybe I won't dream, but have a long, restful sleep. Either way, it sounds like a splendid idea.

"I'm Cassia," she tells me, her long, tight brown curlicues tied into a bun, with remaining hair flowing down the back of her head. Pink and blue streaks are splashed all throughout. And her skin is a dark brown without a single sign of any sort of blemish.

Her outfit is a light blue dress matching the blue streaks in her hair, which is tight at the top, but flares slightly from the waist and down. Her shoes are comfortable–looking blue flats. She looks like she's going to a fine party, but so do most people in the Capitol. Really, she's a normal Capitolite.

"I'll be your stylist."

Immediately, I snap, "Why was I left waiting for so long?"

She frowns. "When did you arrive?" she asks, stepping towards me. "Surely the prep team came shortly afterwards, and they must've left—what? Five minutes ago? Ten? Fifteen?"

I narrow my eyes. "I don't know what time it is, but I've been in here for at least two hours!" I say, keeping my voice to a normal volume. My words are short and obviously impatient.

I sit back and wait for her to apologize, to compliment me on how flawless I seem to be from what she's seen so far.

"You fell asleep, Rift," she tells me, cocking her head. "You must've imagined that. Or—dreamt it."

I pause. It does feel like I succumbed to the pull of closing my eyes, for a moment…I have nothing to say, now that she has pretty solid evidence that I am wrong and being a brat, an idiot that the stylists and mentor and escort will have to deal with. I feel something like embarrassment (but not quite embarrassment) flow through me.

"Well," she begins, letting out a soft laugh, "this is a terrible way to meet. Shall we restart?"

I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

"All right. I am Cassia, your stylist," she tells me, holding out her right hand. I look at it and slowly extend my right hand. We shake hands.

I'm still in the robe that I was told to put on by my prep team. Underneath the robe I am completely nude with no exceptions, and I am sure Cassia will, like the prep team, need to examine me. And as necessary as I know it must be, it's really awkward.

Cassia sits across from me and studies my face, her eyes partly analytical and partly thoughtful at the same time, with a hint of an idea coming to her. If she doesn't have everything already well thought–out, I'm doomed.

"Ah…that's what's wrong; your eyes…they don't…" She frowns more. "Well, I can fix that in a flash, don't worry."

"Uh—"

"Stand up," she orders before I can finish.

I pause, before I hesitantly do as I was asked.

"Take the robe off for me, Rift."

I carefully slip the sleeves off my arms, and toss the small bit of clothing at the chair I was sitting at. I stare out the window while Cassia examines me. "Turn around," she instructs, and I do.

Once that is over, I eagerly put my robe back on and sit across from her again.

"Good, good. You're better than I expected." Cassia takes me to the room that the prep team prepared me in, and shows me my outfit.

I thought this would be one of the best parts of the Capitol: getting to dress up like a Capitolite. But the moment I see what I'm wearing, the moment my eyes fall on _that_, it disgusts me. I've never spent a day in the Capitol before, and yet I'm certain I could design something better.

It's a tan outfit with a hat.

On top of the hat is something that resembles the top of a wheat stalk.

How utterly _stupid_.

I can't help but scowl, again. And I desperately hope that this isn't how all of the Games will be: seemingly so exciting, only to be such a disappointment.

I put the dull costume on anyway. I'll have to be perfect in training to make up for this flop, and the same goes for interviews.

Cassia fixes whatever was wrong that didn't match my eyes or something, and then allows me to step in front of a mirror. I don't look special, spectacular, worth remembering.

If someone is waiting to see me tonight after what I did at the reaping, they won't think my outfit is worth the wait and anxious excitement. It will be a letdown to not just me, but everyone who already adores me.

Now I'm thinking of Amaranth. Is she waiting for me? Does she think I'll look amazing? What is she thinking right now; what is she doing? I know for almost a fact that she is out with her father or something with a scythe, working in the fields. Or perhaps she is with a friend—a boyfriend? Maybe she is ready hours ahead for the Opening Ceremonies. Perhaps she's with my family, but most likely not. Does she miss me?

It doesn't matter. I left her back in District 9, and I won't see her again for about a month.

I shouldn't even think about her, because all she will do is pull me back into that life where I was the unknown amazing of 9. Where everything was so average and dull, so plain and predictable, so _not me_. If I dwell on what is not right now, I might make an even _greater_ fool of myself, which I absolutely do not need in this costume—the source of my foolishness.

"It's nearly time," Cassia says, with a hint of a smile. "Follow me."


	15. Chariot Ride

**Nathalia Campbell****, 17 ~ District 3 Female**

**CelticGames4**

Tonight, I get to meet my stylist. I cross my fingers and pray that it will go well. I _know_ it will go well. I'm so lovable and adorable, plus I trust their sense of style. I'll be willing to hop on the bandwagon if it'll get me sponsors.

My prep team is made up of all three primary colors of people: red, yellow, and blue. They seem almost giddy at how well I look. (Well, Capitol folk are always giddy, but I mean particularly giddy.) They're used to getting poor kids who barely bathe, let alone comb their hair!

…

My stylist is very…silver. He has a huge silver hairdo and metallic eyes and lips, he wears silver platform shoes, and his skin looks gray. I gulp, not liking where this is going.

"Hi there, Nathalia—I'm Avitus, your stylist!" His accent is so strong, I can only understand every other word. "They say you're a wealthy one?"

I smile and nod. "Of course!"

He smiles back. "I like that. It's easy to work with."

"How so?"

"Wealthy kids think like we Capitolites do, so there's usually a lot less moaning, groaning, and complaining! Also, the overall hygiene is so much better..."

"I know!" I pipe up. "There's really not a single flaw on me!"

Avitus shrugs. "You're probably the best we've seen in a while."

I smile proudly, because let's face it: I'm so beautiful.

"You'll also be the most cooperative…right?"

"Anything to get me more sponsors than I had before!"

He grins, obviously satisfied. "Good."

I nod. "So, um…what will I be wearing?"

"The Capitol will love it!" he says. "Because it's the perfect mix of style and humor!"

His assistants lug over a shiny silver box, lined on the sides with glowing buttons. The buttons beep ever–so–slightly, and cast reflections on the metal.

"I'm wearing _that_?" I say in horror.

"Oh, you'll be just wonderful! Put it there," he tells my prep team. They put it on the floor.

"I can't be wearing that! It'll make my beautiful figure look boxy!" I whine.

"But everyone will think it's _hilarious_! And—it'll get you sponsors."

"Fine! Just saying, it is way too _awful_ for me." I glare. "I guess I'll just have to _make_ it beautiful!"

"I was hoping you would say that. They'll love you!"

I'm getting frustrated. I make a face and step into the costume. Theo is going to laugh his head off.

...

Thank goodness, my district partner looks even more stupid than I do. Okay, so I haven't actually spared the time to give him a second glance, but I keep telling myself that.

Candy whisks us off to the chariot room. "Come on, my little tributes!"

I roll my eyes. "I can only waddle so fast in this piece of trash." The remark gets me a glare, which makes me smile.

"Don't push my buttons, Natalie," Candy finally says.

"Nathalia."

"I'm just saying, do _not_ press my buttons!"

"You can press my buttons," I say, pressing one of the red squares on my costume. I laugh at my own joke. If Theo were here, he would be laughing too.

"Okay, okay. On the chariot now, you two!"

I roll my eyes, trying to climb up on the chariot; I can still barely walk. I'm pretty sure I hear some snickers.

Somehow, I make it.

I stand, finally able to look around.

Suddenly, the chariot lurches, and I almost fall forward.

…

The Capitol people are amazing. They're everywhere, a blur of colorful faces and huge hairdos. Their screaming is overwhelming; I think it's the loudest thing I've heard in my life.

I want to do something, but literally all I can do is focus on not falling. I do smile pretty…even though I doubt anyone can see because my face is covered.

…

The president stands to address us. I can't help thinking that it's like a band warming up, and all the conductor has to do is raise his baton and the whole room goes silent. Except for—we're talking at least one hundred thousand people or so, not just one hundred and sixty like back home.

His speech is brief, thank goodness. And soon, our chariot lurches again, and I almost topple over again.

The first thing I do when we're out of the public eye is swear loudly. That sums up my frustration with this whole miserable concept, and the best part is that I don't even think anyone heard.

I hop down and rip the piece of trash off. I don't even care that I'm in a see–through slip and my undies. I go straight to the elevator to retire for the night.

* * *

**Ampere Henry, 14 ~ District 5 Female**

**daydreamer626**

Compared to the majority, Austin and I look great.

Austin is in a gray suit similar to mine, but his has yellow highlights. And on his head is a light bulb, where light rotates like my fan.

As my nervousness bubbles, so do Austin's tics. He does a better job of controlling himself, though.

"The Eight girl—her outfit looks terrible and brilliant at the same time, how's that work? And that guy over there who looks like a stalk of grain? Is that his hair? The boy from Eleven—look, Austin, he's an apple. Oh man, is the boy from Twelve wearing anything other than padding? The girl from Four's top looks very—"

"Ampere, please. For the sake of my sanity, please shut up."

Shilo, Vanth, Boadicea, Austin's stylist, and—to my displeasure—Nero materialize out of nowhere. The stylists weave between me and Austin, fixing our costumes and muttering to themselves.

"First impressions are everything. Just look as if you're excited to here," Shilo says.

"Quite the contrary. Then again…the only things that are inevitable in life are death and the Hunger Games," I reply, not regretting anything.

Shilo shakes her head in exasperation. "Just get on the chariot. Now."

Austin and I clamber onto the chariot, and wait.

"You like annoying Shilo?" Austin asks.

"I show her respect, but I can't always help what I say."

"You can; you just choose to make all of us feel worse with the blunt truth."

"Honesty's the best policy, Sunny Jim."

"There are always exceptions, kid. Better learn them soon."

We stand there not saying anything else, until the chariot jerks. The roar of the crowd almost knocks me backwards. I grip the front as I regain my balance, then survey them.

What are Isaac, Marie, and Brites thinking right now? My brother no doubt is trying not to think of Ash as he watches me. Marie will be weeping, and Brites will be gritting his teeth at the fact that I'm being paraded around like a circus animal.

"You're happy to be here, aren't you, Ampere?" Austin asks from behind a fake grin. He's twitching slightly, and I want to do something to comfort him. But instead I start smiling and waving. The crowd screams our names, but they're clearly not as loud as the cheers for 1, 2, and 4.

The chariots pull to a stop in front of a grand–looking mansion, which must belong to President Snow. He begins his speech, and I tune out; it's a bunch of bull about honor and sacrifice. Seventy–five percent of us are here because no one volunteered to die.

"Wonder if he realizes everyone's thinking—" I start to mutter to Austin, who gives me a sideways glare and mutters, "Wonder if you realize you're not supposed to be talking right now?"

I smirk mischievously, and retort, "Wonder if you realize it's rude to interrupt someone who's talking?"

He says nothing else as the president stops talking. The crowd cheers again, meaning we are almost done.

As if on cue, the chariot jerks forward. We're pulled to the Training Center, where our stylists gently help us down.

"You guys did all right for a bunch of—" Vanth starts to say.

"Are you kidding? You guys were amazing," Boadicea squeals excitedly. "Oh, I bet you were the best! After One and Two, of course."

"I bet we were," I say, caught up in the genuineness of her comment. "We were the most original–looking bunch out there!"

"Representing the power itself was a great move," Austin adds, grinning slightly. His tics have subsided, for which I am relieved.

"Austin, I don't think anyone noticed your—" Nero speaks for probably the first time since I screamed at him and tried to rip his eyeballs out. He shuts up when I whip my head his way, ready to give him another telling–off.

"Down, girl," Austin whispers, jabbing an elbow in my side. His previous mood from mere seconds ago dissipates, and we're back to Square One.

"You definitely did well out there." Shilo, as always, is all business and to–the–point. "Come on, training starts tomorrow; you'll need your rest."

* * *

**Clarily Montane, 14 ~ District 8 Female**

**Revolution Mockingjay**

_I look ridiculous_. That's the first sentence I can form in my head as I stare at the mirror. I don't know what the stylists had in mind, and certainly don't see how this will get me sponsors; I'm covered in all sorts of fabrics, sure that no one in the crowd will be able to tell what the meaning of this outfit is.

When I walk out of the room, my prep team squeals in delight. "You look gorgeous!" they keep saying. _More like gross,_ I think, frowning.

Ramie nods in my direction, wearing a similar outfit.

He and I step onto the chariot. I wobble a bit, and grasp the side so I won't fall off. You'd think that with all of the technology the Capitol has, they'd use something a bit more modern than chariots and horses.

I hear the anthem play, and crane my neck to see that District 1 has taken off. Ramie is staring forward, his jaw set.

Before I know it, we're moving. I hold my head high and put on a smile. The crowd cheers.

My smile falters when I notice that the tributes in front of us are getting flowers while Ramie and I have none. I quickly try to smile even brighter; I might not get any roses or kisses from the crowd, but I can at least not look angry.

We reach the end, and I stare at the president. He sits in a chair on a platform above us. I slightly turn my head to see the chariots close behind ours.

Once every chariot is waiting, the president walks to the edge of the platform. "Welcome, tributes of the Thirty–eighth annual Hunger Games," he says, gaining cheers and whoops from the crowd. "We salute your courage and your sacrifice, and we wish you happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

The chariot lurches forward.

That is probably the shortest speech I've ever heard. I'm glad; I want to take off this costume as soon as possible.

The chariot stops abruptly at the Training Center, and I almost fall off again, but Ramie reaches out and catches me.

I smile gratefully at him. "Thanks."

He nods, and is about to say something when our prep teams exclaim how wonderful we were.

"You did absolutely marvelous!" one of them says.

"You looked amazing!"

I know I didn't, though. Nobody could possibly see what was on our outfits.

I notice that there's a slight lump in Ramie's pocket.

Someone clears their throat, and I see my stylist Chiron offering his hand. I take it, and he helps me off. I nod in thanks, then turn toward Ramie to ask him what's in his pocket.

But he's busy talking to Brietta, so I lean against the chariot and close my eyes.

I can still ace the interview. Maybe that will get me sponsors.


	16. Training: Day One

**Ampere Henry****, 14 ~ District 5 Female**

**daydreamer626**

Vanth's snoring accompanies my foul mood as I slouch sleepily to the elevator. Nero gives me a withering glare, which I ignore—the last thing I need is to fight another round with him.

I give Austin a small smile as greeting. He nods tersely in return. Nero presses a button, and the elevator door slides shut. We shoot down so fast, I'm shocked our feet haven't left the ground.

A few times, Nero makes a sound as if he wants to fill the confining silence, but thinks better of it. Good. There'd be nowhere to flee, and a smaller area for Austin to hold me back.

The elevator jolts to a stop. Its doors slide open to a huge room with various stations featuring anything and everything that tributes might need to survive.

Too numb to speak or move, I stare at the room. Nero pushes me none–too–gently out of the elevator, and I stumble in behind Austin. It's not until I feel a couple hard jabs to my elbow that I reluctantly pay attention. A tall woman is standing in the center of the other kids. One look at her face, and I know not to mess with her.

"…for the survival stations; more often than not, it's the elements that kill tributes…"

I'm ready to snap the little comment I told Shilo on the train, but it's as if Austin's reading my mind—he nudges me, hard, in the ribs. It's a warning: Shut up.

"But it's true," I grumble. His foot jabs me in the leg.

"We can't fight unless we're in the arena, remember?" I say sarcastically.

"…Any questions?" The lady is met with silence. She gives a single nod, and claps sharply.

We scatter as if we're already at the Bloodbath.

"So…what did Vanth tell you to do?" I ask Austin awkwardly. "Or am I not supposed to know?"

"He mumbled a bunch of words before passing out. Something about survival?"

"That's what Shilo told me. C'mon, let's go make fire."

…

There's another boy already at the fire station; I think he's from 8. Austin and I ignore him, and watch the instructor get a flame going using little sticks called matches. He tells us to use twigs first, then get branches to make a bigger fire.

I'm all right with matches. I burn myself several times, before he tells me to throw the lit match into the pile of twigs. "But make sure it doesn't grow out of control; the smoke might suffocate and kill you."

"Suffocating might be a better end than being tortured by one of those arrogant snotbags." I point at the six Careers, who are successfully intimidating the others with their fluent handling of weapons.

Damn me and my mouth.

The instructor has no retort. He looks as though I socked him in the stomach.

Austin rolls his eyes behind his glasses, and focuses on his fire, which is burning steadily. "Hey, Ampere, you seem to have a better grasp on this. Mind giving me a hand?"

It's clear that he wants to tell me something privately; I keep burning my fingers, and Austin knows what to do. I walk over and crouch next to him.

"It's bad enough being here. Could you at least try to make the remainder of our lives something bordering on…decent?"

"As decent as death is," I counter too brightly.

"You just had to say it, didn't you?"

The instructor comes to check on our work, and we make ourselves look busy. I set up one more fire, managing not to singe myself. Then I put it out and stand.

"What should we do next?"

Austin gives me a glare that tells me he demurs the idea of us going around together. "You tell me; I'll see you at lunch."

Ouch.

Without a word, I wander around and find myself at plant identification, dragged into a lecture about common plants and their properties. Two plants look identical, but one is poison. The only way to differentiate them is to pry one open and see if the inside is red (meaning it's nightlock) or blue (for blueberries). Another must be chewed and spit onto the skin if a tracker jacker has stung you. I bite my lip as I get the urge to ask, quite sarcastically, how one would be able to heal their stings if they were hallucinating or dead.

I learn that I suck at tying ropes. Each knot is more complicated than the last, though I notice the other kid flying through with no problems at all; he must be from 4. No matter what I do, whether it be asking for yet another demonstration or working up the courage to talk to the kid from 4 (who looks like he'll snap me in two if I do something wrong, like ask him for help), they end up looking the same.

The woman from before shouts for us to clean up and eat lunch.

The brute from 2 shoves past me. "You're in my way, darling" is tossed over his shoulder.

Head held high, I make myself appear indifferent as I mutter, "My bad, handsome."

A few others hear and grin shyly. Not 2, though. Good.

Barely mindful of what I'm putting on my plate, I quickly fill it and survey the cafeteria.

Most are sitting alone, picking at their plates. Four, who I recognize as those from 11 and 12, are shoveling food so fast, I'm amazed they don't throw up and haven't choked. I don't see Austin, so he must be behind me. That saves me the awkwardness that might come should I try to approach him.

I walk to an empty table, ignoring taunts from the seven Careers. (Seven? Yes, there's the boy from 9; he'll be the first to go once they separate.) I sit, and concentrate on my food.

A chair scrapes across the floor, and I glance up to see Austin sitting across from me. I give him another small smile, then continue eating, waiting for him to say something.

There is only stony silence between us.

"How'd you do while I was gone?" I make my tone sound innocent, as if I've come home from somewhere and am asking my family something menial, like what's for dinner.

"A lot better," he retorts. "I actually managed to get a decent fire going without the extra air."

"I learned so much about plants," I say, ignoring him. "These two berries look identical, but you have to cut them open to find out if they'll kill you or not. And I'm no good at knots; every one of those darn things look the same, and it's so hard to figure out how to do everything right because the trainer just repeats what he's said already—"

"Headache. Starving. Soup's cold. Silence." Austin—whose face previously suggested interest—says this rapid–fire, looking bored and annoyed.

"Steam's still coming off your soup. And the way I saw you eat this morning, I'm surprised you're hungry."

"Just…I'd like to enjoy one meal in relative silence."

"You did this morning, before Nero woke me up. And you probably will if you decide to eat dinner in your room tonight."

"Can't you see no one else is talking?" His voice takes on a harder tone, replacing the rather tolerant one from moments ago.

"The Careers are. And we'd look loony if we all started talking to ourselves." I'm struggling to mask my rising impatience with Austin.

"Not any more loony than you are."

I laugh humorlessly. "That would mean I'm not very loony."

"Quite the contrary."

"What's wrong with you?" I burst out loudly. Austin tries to subtly motion for me to keep it down, but I'm done listening. "I'm trying to have a nice conversation with you!"

"You should talk," Austin says just as loudly. "You're always shooting your mouth and saying things you shouldn't!"

"I can't help it!" By now, everyone is staring at us.

"You can, and you will! You stand out too much, and the Careers will be drooling over which one gets to kill you!"

Yes. The Careers are eyeing us with sadistic pleasure.

"Aw, I didn't know you cared."

"Not that much." He starts twitching, and I want so badly to insult it, but it's too wounding in front of twenty–two potential murderers.

"Just…just…"

For once, I've nothing to say. I think I've met my match.

The Careers are laughing amongst themselves. Austin's right: they've deemed us the oddballs, the loudmouth and the nerd.

I fume as I imagine how Austin would look decorated in my soup's noodles.

…

After the fiasco, we resume training. I want to say something, to amend things, but Austin storms past without a glance. Reasoning that although Shilo said survival stations only, the Gauntlet isn't technically a weapon, I head there.

I wait patiently and watch as each tribute jumps to successively higher platforms and tries to dodge the trainers, who try to knock them down.

"Whenever you're ready," the head trainer grunts.

Taking a deep breath, I leap onto the first platform. As soon as I land, I jump again.

Suddenly, a red–and–black bag comes out of nowhere, and I sidestep less than gracefully. Then I land on the next platform, and push away the next bag with enough force to get me to the halfway mark.

I don't hesitate as I charge onto the platform, eager. And not too watchful. The trainer hits me full in the stomach before I recognize the danger. I stumble off, my stomach lurching as my feet hit open air, and slam onto the ground.

As soon as the air's back in my system, I'm yelling, "What was that?! Cheap shot!" I almost had it; I was there!

"You're not always gonna' see it coming." Austin passes me, pausing only long enough to tell me that.

Then he's gone before I can turn.

He's right—I could be collecting blueberries, accidentally stain my hands with juice, and then see it turn purple with my blood as I try to staunch whatever wound I get from my killer.

* * *

**Rift Quayl, 17 ~ District 9 Male**

**wjjmwmsn5**

The anger from last night's fail doesn't subside when I wake up. My costume was dull and drab compared to some others, and no one cared for it, nor did they pay any attention to me at all. No one screamed "Rift! Rift!", or "District Nine!" which I would've accepted gladly. Maybe it wouldn't have been a direct chant to me, but it would've been something nonetheless. Instead, I got nothing.

Nothing.

The rest of the morning isn't any better. I don't like the mentor very much, I don't like Adele, and I definitely don't like the stylists, especially mine for designing such a lame, typical, cliché outfit. Breakfast is delicious, but feels like it lasts so much longer than it really lasts, and I don't want to talk at all; I just want to get to training. I want to see the Careers. To see my opponents in action. I want to throw professional knives that were made to kill. I want to try archery, and work with hand–to–hand; it's too bad I won't be able to use a knife with that until the arena.

I get more and more anxious. We're told that it's time to go down after years, decades, centuries. Spelt and I are taken to the place where all the weapons are, where I will prepare for the Games. My Games. My heart thumps a little faster than normal, and I feel like I've accomplished something when I stand completely still, not wringing my hands, shifting my weight from one side to the other, or tapping my feet.

Then we're there. Just _there_. And all around me are weapons, training stations, trainers, Gamemakers—everything I've ever longed for and dreamt about, and more. I've never seen the Training Center, and this isn't what I was expecting; I think it's better than what I imagined. My eyes flicker to where I'm pretty sure all the knives are, and Spelt and I trickle around the head trainer, who waits for all the tributes to enter and ring around her. So far, there are only a few. Eventually, more come in, and after a short time every pair of tributes has taken a place.

She begins a speech about what we need to do, and what we shouldn't do, and that we shouldn't skip survival stations for weaponry, blah, blah, blah. I tune out most of it, a little coming into my consciousness but most falling away, in one ear and out the other, as my mother sometimes annoyingly says.

I don't go immediately to the knives, and that takes restraint. I worry that Careers will go there, and I'm not sure why; I'm practically a Career myself because I am so skilled. I could probably even take some of them down single–handedly! When fear installs itself into my head and makes me worry that I'm growing weak, I'm confused. I want to be a Career. I should be a Career. I pretty much idolize Careers. So why does the sight of them frighten me slightly?

I tell myself it's because they're powerful, and they've been training all their lives to be this. To be what I've strived and tried my absolute hardest to be. In all honesty, no matter how much I trained back in District 9, I could never be as good as them, simply because I don't have the resources they do. I was my own trainer, making my own mediocre targets and using what I could for weapons. I had no motivation—no one telling me I could only stop when I did three more sit–ups, or could lift five more pounds, or could hit the target ten times in a row. No one said I could do it. No one said that I'd be a victor.

I'm sure if I was permitted into the alliance—I glance over at a Career and grimly know that it's unlikely, and that's just logical, but still I think I'd be good enough, and still I think I'll be a victor—I might grow used to them…I would hope so. If they intimidated me constantly, I would be distracted, and distractions are my worst pet peeves; they make me smaller than I really am, and leave me vulnerable. Maybe it's not major most of the time, but after a while, surely it would start to affect me.

I head to fires first, knowing this will be essential no matter who I am allied with. I would like to be in an alliance, but at the same time it would be nice to have the freeness that not having an ally provides. Above all, as I make my way to the populated station, my mind continues to wander to what it might be like to be an outer–district Career. To say it would be "cool" or "resourceful" is an epic understatement. It would be so beyond amazing that I can hardly imagine.

A few people sit at the fire–starting station. I pay little attention to them, and only listen to the trainer. I have a hard time focusing on what the trainer says because I don't care a whole lot. I want to get my hands on a weapon, hold a real, actually–deadly knife in my hands and feel its power. The power to kill someone with a flick of the wrist. I just have to get my aim right. I'm not bad with aim, as I have been practicing for many, many, many years, but I've only ever used kitchen knives. Once, I had a knife that I thought closely resembled those in the Games, but it was obviously different—the grip was longer, and the blade was longer too, made differently.

My mother saw me carrying it back to the kitchen one day. I remember the confusion in her eyes. I also remember the flicker that she quickly tucked away, of maybe realization, like perhaps she figured it out, pulled all the pieces together. Sometimes I suspect she and my father know something I don't really want them to know. Sometimes I feel like they're watching me with a little too much disgust, too judgingly, with a lot of anger and pain. Pain that their little boy, the boy who was supposed to be a gift, turned out like I did. Pain that I like the way I am. Pain that I feel an equal amount of pain wash over me when I see that they think I'm sick.

It does hurt. Occasionally, it's hard to conceal this hurt. No matter how heartless I might be compared to them, no matter how much anger I have stockpiled and how much I hate them, I still kind of, sort of, maybe love them a teeny, teeny, tiny bit. And to have my family, the people who share my surname, the people who inhabit my home, look at me and think horrid thoughts that are written all over the dark corners of their eyes is far more than discouraging. Admittedly, it's saddening. It's the kind of distraction that I hate.

"Good job," I hear the trainer say as I produce a meager fire.

I remind myself to come back here later, even though it was aggravatingly boring and I figured it out rather quickly.

I can say that without a bit of arrogance because it's true, and the trainers and other tributes might say so too, if they really cared. Which I know they don't. I'm not seen as a threat, absolutely not; I haven't been given a chance except for my volunteering, and I hope some people at least know I did it to be in the Games. Let them see my skills. Let them see my anger. Let them see my determination, and my training score, and my winner over of sponsors in my interview.

I get up and walk to the knives, happy to be there, over the shrapnel of fear. I pick up a few, getting a feel for them. I have to restrain a smile, a wide one; I have to restrain extreme happiness, delight, joy. I can't believe it, I can't believe it, I can't believe it. It's awesome—more than awesome. It's everything I've waited for since I was eight, when I fell in love with the Games and the Capitol. These knives are my dreams. They're everything, everything I've ever had, and here they are, laying out before me at my disposal.

I pick one up that feels like about the same weight as normal. The length is different, and I desperately hope that doesn't affect my throwing much. I step in front of a target and take a breath. In…hold…out. I hold the knife the way I know how to do from knife–throwers in the Games, gripping it the amount I know I should from practice, and flick my wrist, catapulting it toward the dummy. My breath comes out louder than I meant for it to, but it's not extremely loud. I hit the target. Yes. So my limited training won't impair me too much. Of course, I'm not worried about that; I can adjust quickly. I can do this. I will do this. I am made for this.

The knife has hit just below where it was meant to hit. Not in the head, not in the heck, and not in the heart. Just in the gut. _That will work_, I think to myself. _Bring it up._ I have to think about my mistakes each time I make them, and tailor my next throw to fit what was wrong with the last one. For low ones, maybe I let go sooner. Or throw harder so it gets there if that's what's wrong.

I'm at ease with my throwing. I get angry if I continuously do bad, but mostly I'm happy and peaceful. It's what I like to do. It's my favorite thing to do. I throw a few more. They hit the outer rings or no rings at all, but they're close. I continue to accommodate each mistake.

I throw a particular string of bad ones. So much for 'at ease and peaceful'…I throw one into a leg because I'm not trying. Then I stop and breathe. In…hold…out. I tell myself to hit a target, and then go to another station for a bit. I go to the dummy and pull out the knives I've used. I set them where they go, keeping one—it hits the neck. Satisfied, I pull it out, set it with the other knives, and lift weights. I always like to do this because it gives me time to think, time to seethe. I can't fume when I'm throwing because it requires focus. But when I'm working with hand–to–hand or lifting weights, I can think, and can get angry. Let my anger out, and then let the remainder turn itself into determination and certainty that I have this, I can do this, and I will do this.

I'm not really angry right now, so I just think about anything. I think about Amaranth and my home training. I think about training here. My mind returns to Amaranth as I leave the weightlifting area, and briefly consider going to the throwing weights but decide against it; I want to go back to knives. I want to do something to get my head off the redheaded girl I left.

I pick up one of the knives I used before, and repeat my motions. I hit the target pretty well, but not perfectly. I've hit it once today perfectly. I expected more, and it kind of angers me that this is the best I can do, but it's just the first day and the first time. _I won't be good on the first day,_ I tell myself. Impatience wins, and I let out a huffy breath.

"Hey, District Nine!"

My head turns to the female from District 4—I'm almost entirely certain she's from 4—as she curls her index finger toward herself. I raise an eyebrow slightly, walking to the dummy and pulling out the knife first, before setting it down and going to her and her demure expression. "C'mere."

I hope and hope that I know what she's going to say. Is it too unlikely?

My eyebrow raises again as I reach her. "Yes, District…Four?"

She puts a hand on her hip. The fact that she's not saying she's from 1 or 2 tells me that her name is Maria. She touches my arm gently, cautiously.

I look down carefully at her hand.

"It looks like you really know how to tear into someone," Maria says. I look up in time to see her winking. "What do you say about joining the Careers?"

For a millisecond, I don't understand. Disbelief skirts through me. Is she really asking me to…? No, that's impossible. And then on the inside, I'm completely screaming, _Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Yes times a trillion! _But on the outside, I nod. A nod is all I can manage right then, and I'm not even really sure to which words I nodded about: the fact that I can tear into someone, or the question of if I want to join the Careers—_Yes, yes, yes_—or not.

_Yes, yes, yes,_ I think, and I want to explode and say that word. Just yes, yes, a million, billion, trillion, zillion yeses. Forget training, forget knives, and forget weights and hand–to–hand and even Amaranth. Forget it all. The Careers! Yes! I think of Spelt, and then tell myself to forget about our alliance. There is no competition: I will join the Careers over a pathetic little girl any day.

"I can definitely tear into someone," I agree, and who knows how long it's been since she asked. It feels like hours because I can't help but just feel entirely yes. But it's probably been a second, some normal amount of time between a question and a person's response to said question. I don't need to consider if I will say yes or no at all. Yes. "And I say…"

I pretend to think about it, while on the inside my mind is screaming, _Yes!_ and it seems like I will never think a word other than 'yes' ever, ever again for the rest of my life.

"Sure. Yes. I'll join the Careers." Yes is my new favorite word.

"Oh, good," she replies, a smirk rising to her lips. "It'll certainly be a pleasure having you with us."

I smirk back slightly, but only slightly, my mind processing the whole situation. _Seventeen years,_ I think. Technically just eleven. All those years of dreaming, and it's this simple? I'm okay with that. Really, really okay.

Her hand is still on my arm, though. Why is her hand still on my arm? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

"It'll be a pleasure being with you," I respond, and then find myself at a loss for what comes next. So I blurt out: "Do all the Careers know that you're asking me to join?" Immediately, I feel slightly idiotic. Of course they do. She can't decide she feels like asking without telling the others.

"I may be pretty, but I'm not stupid."

I attempt to smile at her graciously, before her hand slides up to my shoulder and she slowly moves to the other side of me, and it feels all…seductive. The smile that almost came to my lips freezes in my brain. What is she doing? I preferred her hand simply being on my arm.

I look at her tentatively, still reveling in being an outer–district Career. "Oh, uh, thanks then," I get out, failing at not letting the closeness and seductiveness and that hand on my shoulder get the best of me. "You're, uh…that's—that was smart of you." I swallow, an awkward reaction.

She bats her eyes. What…?

"So what do you specialize in?" she asks, and then takes me totally by surprise—she takes my arm and presses her chest against me. What…the…hell?

My eyes widen. Maria is extremely close. My heart thumps. Really, really close.

"I…I fight one–on–one" — I meant I can do pretty good with hand–to–hand — "and throw knives…and I, uh, was going to, er, look into…archery…" I feel proud for getting that out in my shock. Again the question runs through my head: _What is she doing?_ The yeses have ended, and confusion is placed in my head instead. I need to do something. I need to get her chest and her…breasts…off of me…

"I see. Are you any good at those?" She gives me no time to answer. "I hope you are. I don't want my decision to be a mistake." A somewhat dark look is given out of nowhere, and she's still against me, and she seems flirty and still smirks, and I am so…so…baffled…

I swallow again. I have to stop this. I'm going to end up looking more than awkward and a tad bit stupid; I'm going to start looking idiotic and foolish, and find myself saying the wrong things. I have to tell her something I'm confident about. I can't look weak and distractible in front of a Career. I can't look stupid. I can't look anything but sure of my skills and myself.

"I'm very good at throwing knives," I tell her. I smirk slightly, so very slightly. That was perfect. "I taught myself, erm, how to. And I'm confident I'd be good at one–on–one. And archery—well, I haven't tried much of that yet; I've never had access to a, um, bow."

"Oh, good. I have an idea." Maria moves in front of me, and gets as close as she was before she was off to my side. "Why don't we try archery together?"

That's the last thing I want to do.

I swallow. She seems closer now that she's in front of me. To see her when she talks, I have to look down at her, and it's like we're about to kiss, but oh God no we're not. I wonder for a short moment what the other tributes think of this, but that hardly matters. I hope she won't be like this when we're all together. I won't get anything accomplished.

"Since you're, you know, er, more skilled than I am in training, that would, you know, probably be…" I trail off, swallowing, internally killing myself for not being able to get a sentence out. I thought saying it formally would make it easier. It's not. And I sound so, so impossibly stupid and silly, and she's hardly fazed. Just up against me. "…Probably be good for me to learn. And all."

She smiles widely. "Oh, good. I'm glad you think so!" I have to find a way to stop my swallowing and stuttering. Maybe just smiling back will work. She takes my hand while I'm thinking, and leads me to the archery station. "I'm sure I could be a good teacher," she says with a wink.

I smile slightly. Don't stutter. Don't swallow. Say something, and then shoot the bow. Don't breathe heavily. Don't let your heart speed up. There are so many things I have to avoid.

"Good. Yeah, uh, good," I say. "I hope I'm a good student."

We get bows, and therefore we're not touching. I let out a quiet breath.

"When you're ready to shoot, you need to let your breath go slowly," she tells me, sounding certain. Of course she's certain. She's probably been taught this repeatedly.

She aims her bow and arrow, and shoots. The arrow flies through the air and hits the target's arm. She must've meant to do that because she smiles and says, "Your turn."

I step forward, and let my breath out slowly like she told me to do. I load my bow; I aim it, still letting my breath out, and shoot. The arrow whips away from my bow, hitting the shoulder. I'm so relieved to have gotten the target with my mind whirling so much.

"Was that right?" I ask.

Breathe. She's over there. Breathe. She's not right up against you. Stop being so stupid.

The words of advice seem useless.

"Yeah. That'll definitely slow someone down," she praises. I nod in self–approval.

I now know she meant to hit the dummy in the arm because it would slow people down. Maybe that's all she uses archery for. If she uses it. Of course she uses it. I'm being so imbecilic. She smiles at me. I'm glad she has no clue what I'm thinking.

She gets ready to shoot again. This time, it hits the neck.

"That would kill someone," I state.

_No. It would just tickle someone,_ I think sarcastically.

I shoot again. My mind isn't on the shooting, but at the same time I'm trying really hard to focus and actually train. The arrow hits closer to the heart, but still basically on the shoulder. She steps in behind me, and helps me to aim at one of the places where the arrow would kill if the target were a real person.

"Try like this," she whispers in my ear. I feel her breath. It tickles a bit.

But I pull it together. Slowly, slowly, I'm learning to do that around this girl. Not quite, though.

I hit the outermost ring of the heart. My expression turns to a mix of a triumphant grin and cocky smirk. "Like that?"

She smirks, and wraps her arms around my shoulders. "Just like that."

I nod. Words. I think of the words really quick. Then I say them, hoping that helped. Her arms are just around my shoulders. That's all. I need to focus.

"Thanks, then, for teaching me…Maria, was it?"

I'm sure her name is Maria, but it seems a bit more arrogant or something to ask, and I don't want to call her Maria if her name is Marie or Mary. I continue to smirk, but it's dwindled with her closeness.

"It is. And your name is Rift, District Nine." Maria winks.

I nod. "It's a lot better than some of the other names in District Nine."

Why did I say that? I doubt she cares.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. The rest of my family all have grain names, like Rye and Triticale," I say, and keep rambling. My mind turns to Amaranth. "My friend's name is Amaranth, but I actually like her name a little." A lot. It's a pretty name. It doesn't sound like a grain to me. It sounds like her.

She smiles like she cares, and I appreciate that. "Oh, I see. Is she your girlfriend?" She gets close to me again.

I shake my head quickly. "No, Amaranth's not my girlfriend," I answer. The subject and decreased distance between us brings me to falling into more awkwardness.

Maria gives me a seductive look. "Oh, good." She says that a lot, I guess. "No competition for me then."

She winks and leaves me.

I watch her, look at my bow, and train in a pretty bewildered state. I hope I don't have to sit by her at lunch.


	17. Dinner

**Ampere Henry****, 14 ~ District 5 Female**

**daydreamer626**

Picking at my food, I glance at Austin for the who–knows–how–many–times–it's–been.

…

_Austin and I squeezed into the elevator after training. My stomach clenched._

_"Austin—"_

_"Not now."_

At least he acknowledges me_, I thought._

_"I'msorryforwhathappenedatlunch." The words flooded before Austin could try to shut me up. "I should've shut up and eaten, and enjoyed your company." By the look he gave me, I could swear he was thinking something like, _Wait, no sarcasm? _"Should I accept your silence as an 'It's OK, Ampere?'"_

_A small smile, probably involuntary. "Just watch what you say."_

_"You said that already," I told him, a smile creeping up on me._

_"And I'll keep saying it until it happens."_

…

We enjoy a not–so–quiet dinner as the stylists chatter amongst themselves about who–knows–or–cares–what, Nero compares us to previous District 5 kids, and Shilo grills us.

"So, what do the others look like?" It seems that Shilo's almost done. If I have to listen to one more question to which I don't know the answer, I might go nuts.

"We were supposed to be paying attention?" I know immediately that I asked a stupid question.

Austin looks as though I've suggested we all jump off the roof of the Training Center. "Yes, we were," he mumbles. "But noooo, we were too busy making ourselves stand out…"

"What was that, Austin?" Shilo asks, a cool glint in her blue eyes.

"He said we were too busy taking ourselves around the stations," I jump in before Austin can.

"Oh?" Shilo gives a look that tells me she's not convinced.

"Yeah," Austin says. "We stayed away from weapons. I saw the Careers after lunch—they, as usual, look lethal." He's quite the actor.

"How so?"

"Like the usual arrogant killers who think they're better than everyone. Good with weapons, bloodthirsty, the whole nine yards," he replies quickly.

"Nothing unusual about them?" Shilo presses.

Austin shakes his head sullenly.

"All right. Keep working on the survival stations, but start weapons tomorrow. The last thing you need is a target on your back."

"Too late," I grumble.

"'Too late', Ampere?" Shilo asks in a fake sweet voice.

"She thinks it's too late to learn to use a weapon," Austin replies. I turn red.

_I can learn a weapon. Heck, I can shoot a bull's–eye with a bow and arrow. Who is he to say that about me? Just because we fought doesn't give him the right to— _

He gives a sideways wink, stopping my internal tirade. Good thing I didn't say anything out loud. I give him a thumb's–up as Shilo nods and refocuses on her dinner.

"Well, I hope you're fast learners. If you can't get the weapon you want, go for a knife; they're the most common, and you can use them for just about anything. Yes," she adds with a pointed glance in my direction, "even murder."

I close my mouth as Austin snorts into his drink.


	18. Training: Day Two

**Austin Hexson, 18 ~ District 5 Male**

**MCPBN**

The elevator doors open—the smell of sweat and rubber hits my nostrils. I close my eyes and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, relieving pressure in my forehead.

I now associate this room with sore limbs and pain.

…

I tried sword–fighting yesterday. I picked a sword up, immediately knowing it was a mistake, and tried the first level of training. I couldn't even pass the first level!

…

My stomach knots as I remember the District 1 girl laughing at me. I push my glasses up as I try to relieve more pressure; I can't have a headache today, or all ideas of me being a strong opponent will be shattered.

I feel Ampere's hand on my back, and shy away from her.

"Are you all right?" I sigh inwardly. Nod. "How about we work on weapons, since we worked on survival skills yesterday?"

I shrug. Ampere glares, clearly annoyed that I'm not easier to get along with. Why should I get along with her? Pretty soon, she'll be my enemy.

"I'm not doing swords again," I state.

She looks at me like what I said is obvious.

Huffing, she says, "Fine, what do you want to do?" She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head.

"I don't **_know_**, Sally, OK?! Why is that so hard to understand?"

I realize my blunder at the same time Ampere gives her trademark questioning look. "Who's Sally?"

I turn away.

She's like Sally: the same fire, expressions, the same age and likeness in the face. _They're different, and you know it!_

"That's none of your concern."

Ampere sighs and shakes her head at me. I walk away. She doesn't follow.

I don't know where I'm going until I find myself in front of the spear–throwing station. Although I'm pretty sure that large jagged objects are not for me, Shilo said—since Vanth was too busy consuming liquor—that I shouldn't show my strengths.

When I pick up a spear, the trainer shows me the basics of aiming and throwing. I calculate speed and velocity in my head.

Copying his every move, I reel my hand back, launching the spear as I step forward—it flies into the second ring out from the center. He nods in approval.

I notice that the Gamemakers are watching me, and try my best to hide my twitching, contorting eyes. The next spear flies too far to the right, landing in the space between the side and the arm.

I feel someone touch my back. "Deep breaths, Austin," Ampere's voice says in my ear. "It'll go away soon."

She's sincere. I give her a half–smile, and she walks away as quickly as she came.

…

I'm one of the first in the cafeteria, so I quickly place myself in the spot I sat yesterday: the corner. You can see the whole room, which gives me the advantage of studying the other tributes.

There are a few people sitting at the same table, mostly tributes from the same districts. Everyone is scared, or ready for battle, or completely confused.

The Careers are together. They're all intimidating, but the girl from 1 gives me the creeps. Right now, she sits at the center of the table. (Do I see a Career leader?) The District 2 girl wants to chop everyone's head off, while District 4's tributes appear bored, like they have better things to do.

District 3 Girl is out of place—you would see her walking outside with the rest of the Capitol and not think anything of it. The boy from 3 is rather annoyed with her.

The boy from 9 catches my attention, since he sits with the Careers.

A clatter brings my attention to my table: Ampere sitting next to me. The irony; I sat across from her yesterday, and today she sits next to me. It explains our personalities a little.

She starts eating, and for some odd reason doesn't talk. This confuses me, because she usually can't keep her mouth shut. We sit in awkward silence.

She huffs. I look at her, and back to my plate.

She huffs a little louder. I shift my eyes to her, yet continue eating.

Again she huffs, only this time it sounds like a sigh as well.

"Is there something you need?"

"Mm, there is. I saw your spear–throwing, and I was wondering if you could help me with the bow and arrow?" Ampere asks, a hopeful, innocent look on her face.

I squint for a second, and then reply, "Yes, I will. But you could have just said it; clearing your throat like that can make it feel scratchy, and occasionally cause bile to rise into it."

"I was trying to be subtle," Ampere mumbles, and then convulses into giggles. I chuckle.

…

I stand at the front of the line, waiting for my turn in sparring practice. My mouth feels dry since I spent the entire lunch break explaining to Ampere how to improve her bow skills.

I am called to the ring. For the past thirty minutes, we've been practicing punch–kick combinations on bags. Now we are instructed to spar with a trainer. I stick my headgear and soft gloves on, put a mouth guard in, and walk to the ring's center. I am amazed at how this comes easy for me.

A trainer waves a flag, beginning the match.

The trainer facing me starts out with basic punches and slow kicks that I deflect easily, yet I can't lay a hit. If you get three hits, you're the winner.

I finally get a left hook into his gut, and the judging trainer calls a point. We return to our original positions and begin again.

I punch and kick, but don't have the right speed yet. The trainer lands a point on me. We start over. He's on me before I can think, getting another point.

I take a deep breath, my hands jolting.

The flag is waved. The trainer does a roundhouse kick to my head; I block it, and grab his leg. Now he's unbalanced. I do a sweep with my leg, making him fall to the ground. I drop on one knee and punch him in the chest. We're even.

Next point wins.

We go to our starting positions; the judge waves the flag. The trainer runs and does a flying side–kick. I step out of the way just in time, and he lands with precise balance. He then hits me with a spinning back kick.

But doesn't call it. I notice that he hit the hand that was blocking my chest. The trainer seems a little perturbed, but in a second he's back to business.

I do a front snap kick, which he blocks coming around with a spinning elbow. I duck and jab him in the gut.

I hear a squeal from the sidelines, and see Ampere jumping up and down, clapping. I give her an 'are–you–serious' glare. She stops jumping and clapping, but doesn't stop smiling, and gives me a thumb's–up.

She's not the only one who noticed—so have the Careers.

They aren't impressed.

* * *

**Jodi Quinnell, 13 ~ District 10 Female**

**I've got cookies**

The elevator is empty as it opens at our floor. It's early, and Lisette and Silas have already ordered us to go to training. We went early yesterday, but weren't the first there. I see my reflection in the glass wall. I am wearing a short–sleeved, comfortable blue shirt, grey leggings, and blue sneakers.

The elevator doors open at the training floor, and Spencer and I step out. The Careers are training like mad psychos. One of them will kill me. The thought brings tears to my eyes. I can't let anyone see, so I run away to knot–tying. I was bad at it yesterday. I'm even worse today. How? I just am.

What should I do? Probably work with a whip. Fire–starting, edible plants. Then some knife combat. I believe my small body would be an advantage. And allies. I don't want to be in an alliance with an older person. My age, or younger. Or else I'll feel weak. There aren't many options.

I learn one new knot. I drop it, and head to fire–starting. I will probably come back later, so I'll really know if I learned the knot.

Fire–starting is a whole different thing—I'm actually good at it! Even though there's no way I've done this at home. The gym slowly fills as I look at the burning wood, smiling. I put more wood, and giggle as the fire grows.

"That's enough," the trainer says, smiling.

I nod, and stand. I might even use fire–starting in my private session. Time for some real stuff. I look around to find the knife station.

The trainer tells me how to hold a dagger, and a few attack techniques. I see his irritation—he has no hope for me.

Another trainer tests out my skills, and teaches me in action. I grip the dagger, and run at him; he trips me with one small move.

"Think a bit!"

Not the best advice. If a Career comes after me, there's no use fighting him or her. If a non–Career chases me, they won't be nearly as skilled at tripping me like that. I try again, this time jumping on the trainer's back and putting the dagger to his throat.

"That's good!"

I jump down, and listen to other advice. After about half an hour, I look for a whip.

I sit beside the Gauntlet and close my eyes. What now? _What now?_ I haven't found an ally yet. A whip neither.

A small girl with rather dark skin catches my eye. I make my way to the throwing knives. She seems okay with them—that's a bonus point.

I throw a knife, and it falls on the ground. I failed. Why?

Why can't I do anything right?

I…I…

Don't cry, Jodi.

"Hello, I'm Jodi Quinnell. District Ten." I extend my hand.

"Hi." The girl seems unsure of herself. "Farro Bremer. District Eleven." Farro takes my hand, and shakes it.

"Um…I was wondering…do you want to be allies?" Now I am the unsure one.

"Well…" She pauses. "I guess so. Why not?"

I smile, and let out a small giggle of joy. I bet that she hasn't seen my reaping; I was more than sure that my crying would not help me.

"Okay then. See you later? Should we talk out some strategies?"

"Um, sure. Later, then!" Farro waves, and turns back to what she was doing before.

I head to the Gauntlet. I have short legs, so I will have to jump big steps. In front of me is the District 1 male. I really, really hope that I'll never meet him in the arena.

I look behind me to find another Career: the District 2 male. District 1 is actually good–looking. District 2 isn't ugly, but he's not as handsome.

When 1 takes off, I'm the first one in line. He goes through the course so fast and easily that I envy him—for his probable, not–yet–given score, for the sponsors he will earn…and even if he doesn't earn sponsors, he'll do great. And that isn't fair!

"Next," the trainers says in a monotone.

I straighten my back and jump onto the first platform. I jump farther. Then even farther. Suddenly, I have to jump very high. My feet slip, and I grab the platform. I hear laughing behind me. _Don't fall—you can do this! _

I gather my small amount of strength, and pull myself up. I turn and shoot a quick glare.

After the uplift, the course seems much easier. It's downhill. I finish as fast as I can, and head to the next station.

And there it is—right in front of me: a whip, waiting to be picked up. I run and grab it. But at the moment I'm about to start using my most beloved weapon, the lunch bell rings.

* * *

**Rhiannon Woodsville****, 15 ~ District 12 Female**

**LydiaXuning–fic**

The head trainer dismissed us for Day Two.

I snickered quietly. I thought she would repeat the cause–of–death percentages today, but apparently she didn't.

Huh.

Since when did the bloodthirsty Capitol leave out a vivid reminder of the arrival of the Grim Reaper?

...

I spent the whole day yesterday on survival stations—edible plants, shelter–building, camouflage, and knot–tying—just like Flasive told me to.

Edible Plants was a breeze. I suppose living in District 12 and constantly dealing with starvation had helped me be resourceful in finding food.

As for the other three, I learned a lot that I hoped would be sufficient to sustain me in the arena. The wish of a desperate human. Go figure.

...

Looking around, I noticed that the Careers had headed to the deadliest stations (swordfighting, knife–throwing, hand–to–hand combat). Again.

_All filled with bloodlust_, I decided.

I settled for fire–starting, where there were two other tributes (a boy and a girl) gingerly picking up pieces of firewood. Good. That way, I wouldn't draw attention to myself.

The station trainer demonstrated lighting a fire with firewood, and should I say I was a bit disappointed? I thought that since this was the Capitol, they would have some terrifying other ways of lighting firewood. I had been starting fires since I was eleven, helping Mom at her food stand. It was exactly the same as what the trainer showed me.

The trainer must have sensed something, for he gave me flint instead. Now this was slightly tricky.

As I worked hard, I became slightly self–conscious and uncomfortable, as if someone was watching my every move. Turning my head, I noticed that the Careers were still busy at the weapons, and the rest at the other stations. Unsatisfied, I turned fully around…and saw them.

The Gamemakers.

Twenty–four of them, observing each of us from the gymnasium balcony. The very people who spent countless hours speculating and conjuring fascinating new ideas to kill children, who sent Ehan to his death (and probably me to mine as well) with the push of a button in the Control Room. Some of them got up to have a closer view of the tributes, and some furiously scribbled on notepads. Twenty–four Gamemakers for twenty–four tributes; how thoughtful of the Capitol. How nice of them to pay attention.

Turning back, I drew all my attention to the flint, and was rewarded when light sparked in front of my eyes. The trainer gave me an approving look. I sheepishly looked away—so much for not drawing attention.

I caught sight of slingshots at the projectile station. I walked towards them, and felt the perfect carvings. Medium–sized, laced with string…I must say that I never thought of them as a weapon with which to kill people before. I chose a slingshot and went to the target ring. _Might as well get over it._ That's what was going to happen, right? Weapons. Blood. Deaths.

I pulled the string back, and realized it was different from home. It was taut, firmer. I sent the stone flying; it hit a portion a little left from the bull's–eye.

Wow. That was something. I thought it would accidentally hit the Gamemakers or somebody else instead. Encouraged, I pulled the string again and shot. I practised and practised until the sleek slingshot felt familiar. Maybe I stood a chance after all.

But my sudden hopes vanished as soon as they appeared when I saw the boy from District 1 standing forty metres away from his target, spear raised.

He hit the bull's–eye.


	19. Training: Day Three

**Nathalia Campbell, 17 ~ District 3 Female**

**CelticGames4**

I hate training. With everything in me, I hate training. It's tiring, repetitive, and something that I don't do well—which bothers me to no end. Plus, afterwards, I end up all sweaty and gross.

Don't get me wrong: I _love_ tearing up the dummies with a sword…mostly because I'm good at that.

Besides, it's not like I'm the worst. My district partner (um…I think his name is…wait, I know it…never mind, I've stopped caring) spent the vast majority of his time painting camouflage. And though I think that could be fairly helpful…I'm not artistic, so I make sure to stay far, _far_ away from there. Wouldn't want my own puny district partner to outshine me, would I? Not that he _would_ outshine me.

My goal is to score as high as the Careers.

That hope fades pretty quickly when I kind of put the arrow in my bow the wrong way. And then shoot myself in the shoe. And then almost take a trainer's head off. Okay, so maybe the bow and arrow isn't for me.

So I move on to the spear station. And, just like yesterday _and_ the day before, it hits the wall with a blunt thump and plops to the ground with a loud clang.

So I try knives again. They go everywhere.

Needless to say, the trainers are weary of me by the third training day, and they all do their best to stop me from using those weapons.

I attempt fire until my hands sting, and nonchalantly walk past the camouflage station on my way to the two weapons I'm actually good at.

From hefting around a heavy saxophone case, I can swing huge maces. And swords are…well…swords; it's kind of hard not to injure people with a sword. In an arena with twenty–three insane lunatics who want to kill me, I think that will very much come in handy.

* * *

**Clarily Montane, 14 ~ District 8 Female**

**Revolution Mockingjay**

"Wake up, dearie," the escort says in a cheerful voice. I sigh, sliding off my bed, and get dressed in the training outfit.

I peer into the dining room. I walk in quietly and slide into a chair. There are pancakes in front of me. I pick up a fork and cut off a piece, and chew. I can't focus; I'm too tired. After a few bites, I put my fork down and rub my eyes.

That's when I remember that it's Ramie's birthday. (What a way to celebrate.) Marabeth told me when it was a few years ago, and we went to the bakery and got him something. He was Marabeth's friend back then, but he isn't now; she hasn't mentioned him in ages.

I put more bites of pancake in my mouth every now and then, though I'm not hungry.

The Games are coming too fast, too soon. In only a few days, I'll be killing other children. Or be killed myself.

Ramie stares out the dining room window. I smile, and creep behind him. "Happy birthday, Ramie," I say as cheerfully as I can.

"Thanks," he says, and I can tell by his voice that he's wondering how I know.

I turn around, then feel his hand grab mine.

"Wait, Clarily," he says.

"What?" I ask, suspicious.

"Do you want to be allies?" I'm about to answer, but he keeps on talking. "You know, because once we're in the arena—"

"Yes," I interrupt, smiling as I wrap my arms around him. All I wanted was to have an ally, but never thought it was possible. Now maybe I can get home.

A sickening feeling fills me as I realize that my getting home means Ramie's death. I can't let him die. But my family is waiting for me.

_Isn't everybody's?_

I head to the fire–starting station, and sit next to a pile of twigs. I place a few on top of each other and rub two sticks together, but no fire is coming. Aggravated, I throw a stick halfway across the room.

"Hey, ally," Ramie says, crouching next to me, "let me help you." He leans down before I can say, 'No, thank you' and shows me how to do it.

"Thank you," I say as Ramie stands, though I'm not sure he hears me.

"I like making tiny bonfires with wood, but there are a lot of ways of organizing them," he says.

I nod. I'd say something else, but the thought of him dying leaves me speechless. I can't stop imagining a sword sticking out of his stomach. A shiver runs down my spine. I close my eyes and try to concentrate.

After multiple attempts, the twigs finally light up. I smile and blow out the fire.

I decide to try weapons.

I aim a knife, and swing my arm forward; the knife flies out of my hand and completely past the target. It lodges into a wall. I hear snickers behind me, and grow red with humiliation. I try throwing knives again and again, but the best I can do is hit the side of the bull's–eyes.

I try not to look too mad when I hear my name whispered as I head to the archery station. It's best if I hide my emotions. That way, the other tributes can't figure out how to unnerve me.

I pick up a bow, nock an arrow, and struggle to pull back on the string; it's harder than I thought. I eventually pull it to my cheek and let go. The arrow whooshes through the air and misses the target. I clench my teeth and grab another.

I nock it, and pull back; it's a bit easier this time. I aim downward, hoping that it will help me in some way. The arrow hits a few inches from the bull's–eye.

I smile. Maybe I have a chance at winning these Games.

* * *

**Ramie Ortega****, 12 ~ District 8 Male**

**YazminDominguez**

It was a nightmare. That's it.

_I got chased until I hit a brick wall. Behind that, I heard my family screaming; they were being attacked by the same muttations pursuing me. I couldn't do anything except pound my fists on the wall, and wait for the moment when their cries ceased—for better or worse. But they_ would _stop._

As soon as I woke up and was conscious of my surroundings, I started sobbing. The feelings of desperation and devastation were so life–like, they made my skin crawl.

I stopped when Ferronia came into the room. "What is the matter, Ramie?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said flatly. "Just a dream."

Ferronia eyed me suspiciously and left.

...

"Happy birthday," I said quietly to the pair of hazel eyes staring at me in the mirror. I stuck my tongue out, and then splashed water at the glass. Today, I was officially a teenager.

Thirteen years old.

I stepped into a cascade of warm water, feeling instantly soothed and relaxed. I massaged sweet, perfumed shampoo into my hair and thought about how strange it was to turn a year older inside the Training Center. It was my luck, though.

I missed my family more than ever—longed for their embraces and smiles as they congratulated me on surviving another year in this awful world.

The only positive thing I could extract from this experience was that I might get a cake, something I had never had before. I was excited…though I would feel guilty since they were starving.

…

Clarily came up when I was looking out of the dining room window. "Happy birthday, Ramie," she said sweetly.

"Thanks," I said with a little shock in my voice, and managed to smile. How did she know?

She was the only person I had talked to that whole week without obligation; I'd conversed with her because I wanted to. I now stared into her pretty brown eyes, until she smiled and turned around. That's when the question popped into my head.

"Wait, Clarily…" I grabbed her hand.

She let go, and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

I took a deep breath. "Do you want to be allies?" I asked. "You know, because once we're in the arena—"

"Yes," she said, nodding, and hugged me. It felt awkward at first, since I barely knew her, but this was the first hug I'd received since District 8. I breathed in her sweet scent as she pulled back.

A hug and an alliance. Best birthday presents I could ask for.

…

"So, are you ready for today?" Woof asked at the table.

I swallowed my pastry. "Nope."

His shock caused me to laugh, spewing chocolate éclair all over his new suit. "I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I'm really not, though."

Woof nodded as an Avox dabbed at his clothes with a napkin. "Well, stop fooling around and get to thinking about what you'll do to woo the Gamemakers."

"I don't know—" I started.

And then was shocked myself, because Woof slammed his palm on the table's wooden surface and exclaimed, "You can't not know! This isn't fun and games anymore, Ramie! It's not—it's serious! Tell me what your skills are."

"Um, I can start fires, make snares and knots, and_—_"

He interrupted me again. "Anything useful? I mean, anything with a weapon?"

"Knives! I can throw knives," I said instantly, with a little too much excitement. I didn't want to tell him I hadn't tried yet, though.

"Really? Well, okay, great. Show the sponsors and Gamemakers this, okay? Show them that you're not just another weak kid from some district—show them you're a fighter from District Eight, got it?"

I nodded.

...

Ferronia escorted us to the gym after breakfast. Like yesterday and the day before, I went straight to where the Careers weren't lurking.

Truth is, I was completely overwhelmed by fear of them, to the point that I hadn't gathered enough courage to go near the weapons. Every single one (even the girls, appealing though they were) looked vicious, and they owned the weapons, aiming arrows with perfect accuracy, throwing knives and spears, tearing through dummies like they were made of soft clay.

I maintained a safe distance at the knot–tying, fire–starting, and everything–else stations. Camouflage really challenged me: I could blend colors, but textures—rigid grooves in bark, or tiny circles of soft moss—didn't come out right, though I loved the feeling of the moss's spongy material as it slid from hand to hand.

I looked to the projectiles, and flinched; Minte Hawbek and Aelia Tiberius were throwing knives with such speed that the poor targets never knew what hit them.

'As soon as they clear out, I'll go over,' I promised myself. I had been doing so for the past two days, and it hadn't happened.

After I finished internally debating, I decided that since this was the last training day and I was planning to throw knives in my private session, I had to give it a shot.

I sighed, gathering my wits.

Some Careers snickered when I passed them, amused to see me here. I walked to the station helper, concentrating hard on keeping my legs from giving out.

He was huge, with skin as tan as toast. (I smiled, sort of feeling better at the thought of comparing him to toast.) He had dark hair and eyes, a long nose, and bushy eyebrows. He quickly explained the techniques, though I got the feeling he considered it a waste of his time.

I tightly grasped the hilt of a seven–inch knife with two fingers outstretched, lounging on the side. I heard a crack; to my surprise, it stuck less than six inches from where the victim's heart would be. I felt eyes staring in my direction, but in that moment I was so pleased that I didn't care. I repeated until I hit the outer edge of the bull's–eye.

I was an excellent runner, so I made my way through the Gauntlet without receiving more than a couple scratches. My confidence was through the roof, and adrenaline pumped through my veins. Climbing gave the same satisfying result: I could scale the wall and trees fast since I was less than one hundred and ten pounds. I felt unbeatable, ignoring the Careers when I passed them again…until archery; I couldn't bring the string to my cheek, and the arrows went in the right direction, but didn't hit the target unless at close range.

I grabbed a spear and positioned myself. As soon as I threw, I knew it wasn't going to land close. I was right: it hit the target's knee. I tried a few more times, but it was no good. I couldn't handle the long shaft that seemed longer than me, or its weight.

And I couldn't hold up a sword for more than five minutes without my arm aching.

I made the mistake of heading toward the pickaxe station. I stopped dead in my tracks, because I was facing one of the Careers I so feared: Rift Quayl, the volunteer from 9. I resisted the urge to run away like a cat from water. I had to do this.

I had no success, so I gave up.

After being stared down and laughed at, I didn't try wrestling or basically anything else that involved violence. I returned to the survival stations, and caught up with Clarily at fire–starting.

"Hey, ally," I said playfully, crouching next to her. She was attempting to put sticks in the right positions. "Let me help you."

I explained step–by–step.

"I like making tiny bonfires with wood, but there are a lot of ways of organizing them."

She nodded in reply. I left her to it, and moved to edible plants.

I wasn't great at this activity. They honestly all looked the same to me at first. But after three days, I could see dissimilar curves, textures, and even colors. (For example, poison ivy was different from poison oak because of the leaf form.) I recognized blueberries, blackberries, and poisonous berries.


	20. Private Sessions

**Austin Hexson, 18 ~ District 5 Male**

**MCPBN**

I sit on the long bench that extends across the cafeteria. (All the tables have been cleared, so I notice that the bench on the wall extends—something I missed earlier.) My whole body aches. Yesterday, I ran the Gauntlet and ended up on my gluteus maximus with a fresh batch of bruises crisscrossing my mid–section, and Careers snickering over me; I was overzealous, and didn't think through the moves I had to do to accomplish the course unscathed.

Today's the day of private sessions. I've been trying all morning to keep my tics to a low. I can't have them backtracking me even further.

The girl from 4 is called. Ampere grabs my hand, and I smile at her, feeling anxious. We've been getting along better as of late. I don't get annoyed as much when she becomes curious, and she seems to have gotten past my peculiarities as well. We've broken a barrier, that's for sure.

"So, what are you going to do?" Ampere asks.

I shrug. I'm not brushing her off, I just don't have anything to say. And I'm glad that she understands.

It seems like the next fifteen minutes are over before they start. "Austin Hexson," the humanoid voice says.

I stand, and hear a snicker from down the bench. It's the boy from 9. I give him a steely glare.

Now I am determined to show what I'm capable of. I walk out of the cafeteria as confidently as I can. The doors shut behind me. Now all I can hear are my soft footsteps clicking on the hardwood floor.

I walk to the center of the room, and turn toward the balcony that the Gamemakers are seated at. They act exasperated, as though someone they hate is about to talk to them. It's because all the Careers are finished, and they believe everyone else is going to be a drag. I can't let them think this.

One says, with a hint of annoyance, that I may begin. I'm at a loss for what to show them. I turn one hundred eighty degrees…and I'm still at a loss.

I reluctantly walk to the spears. They've already seen me with them.

At that moment, I see a familiar bronze wire rolled up in a far corner of the room. On further inspection, I confirm that it's the one Beetee created after his Hunger Games. Beetee is a District 3 victor, so the only reason I know about the wire is because it can harness any type of electrical energy. It was a great advancement for District 5.

Immediately, I know what I'm going to do.

I get a rubber glove from the ropes course and the section where you climb bars, slit open the lining with a knife, then grab thin wires and a roll of paper towels from the cleaning supplies. I ask a trainer for a bottle of water, salt tablets, and six coins. The Gamemakers look on curiously.

I dissolve the salt tablets into the water, shaking the bottle vigorously. I dip small pieces of paper in the water, lay them between the coins, and place five wires _on_ the coins. Then I stick the whole thing inside the lining, tucking it in the palm.

I poke a inch of each wire out of the glove's fingers, re–seal the lining using tape, and put the glove on.

I smile, seeing I still have ten minutes' worth of action.

I cut three feet off of the big roll of Beetee's wire, then switch it to my gloved hand and feel electricity start to crack. It worked. I created a battery. It's something I learned in school, and I got really good at making them. I know for a fact that it will last about an hour or two before going out.

I swing the wire around, loosening it. Then I slap it onto the floor. Sparks fly when it comes in contact, and a loud crack thunders.

I walk to a dummy, and swing and flip around with precise accuracy. I'm a blur of bronze and spark. The wire wraps around the dummy's head, cracking and fizzling as both parts collide. To my surprise, and the Gamemakers', the dummy catches fire. I feel a surge of triumph; I have them. Now I just can't lose them.

I wrap the wire around another dummy's waist and pull it to the floor. I swing the wire high over my head and drop to one knee—it sails down, smashing into the dummy, making small lightning lines shoot out. It also bursts into flames.

I walk to the spears, throwing away the pretty much spent wire and taking off my glove. I wrap another three feet around a metal spear, tie it so it won't fall off, and put the glove back on.

Soon, the spear is an electric pole. I walk to the dummies that light up, showing where you're supposed to throw. I look at the clock. I have thirty seconds left.

I take position, then practice my aim.

Five. I pull back.

Four. I take aim.

Three. I throw.

Two. The spear sails.

One. The spear hits the target's center, and as the bell goes off, the dummy explodes in smoke and fire.

I hear muffled screams of astonishment behind me, then walk to the Gamemakers, nod, and go to the elevator. It's not till the doors close and I start to rise that I smile. All in all, I think I did fantastic!

* * *

**Clarily Montane, 14 ~ District 8 Female**

**Revolution Mockingjay**

"Ramie Ortega," an automated voice says.

Ramie stands and starts walking.

"Good luck," I call. He doesn't reply.

I try to be patient, but it's hard. _I'll do archery first_, I think. _Then if that fails after a few tries, I'll go to the knife station._ I'm more comfortable with archery. There's something about a bow in my hand and arrows soaring that I love.

After about twenty minutes, my name is called. I look at the other tributes and stand, shakily making my way through the door.

A few Capitol people sit above me, watching. Some are drinking and eating. All sort of different foods, from soups to proteins—it's all there. I didn't eat very much because I was worried, and now I'm starving.

A man nods at me, and I walk toward the archery station. I pick up a silver bow, nock an arrow, place my feet slightly apart, and pull back on the string.

My fingers suddenly slip, and the arrow flies past the target. My face grows red. How could I do that?

I turn slightly. I've already lost the attention of multiple Gamemakers.

I grab another arrow, fury inside me. I can't believe I messed the first one up. I'm shaking from worry and humiliation.

My stomach growls unexpectedly, and I let go of the string before I'm ready—the arrow hits the very edge of the target. I whip my head around.

_Calm down,_ I tell myself.

I grab another arrow, pull the string back, and aim down. I take three deep, long breaths. My arrow hits closer to the target's center.

I shoot three more, two hitting near the center, and the last hitting dead center.

"You may leave," one of the Capitol men says suddenly, as if he's just noticing me.

I put the bow back, my heart thudding. They weren't paying attention. They most likely didn't even see the one bull's–eye I made.

But maybe they did.

* * *

**Ramie Ortega****, 12 ~ District 8 Male**

**YazminDominguez**

"Ramie Ortega," I heard a woman's distant voice call.

I was shaking, and my knees were also.

"Good luck," someone said.

I entered the enormous gym, slowly and shyly making my way to the center. I didn't know if I had to introduce myself, or what. So I stood there until a man with a bald orange head nodded.

Okay, what to do…?

I began making a mental list of things.

Camouflage. Good, now how to put it to work? I scanned the room until I saw dummies against a far wall. Perfect.

I placed one in the center of the room so the Gamemakers could have a good view, and started. Half of its torso was disguised as bark. I eyed the brown grooves with a smile.

Next thing: Knots. I could hang a dummy with a noose, but unfortunately I didn't have the skill to craft such a knot.

Knives. I started toward the knife–throwing station, but stopped midway because I wanted my session to stand out to the spectators. So I hastily gathered a good assortment of weapons, and brought them over.

I glanced at the Gamemakers, and noticed I had a couple pairs of eyes trained on me. What now? It made me kind of edgy to know they were watching my every move, but I mustn't bore them.

I began to course very fast around the dummy, throwing knives as I went. Most hit where the brains, heart, and stomach would be…but others flew right beside it and landed out of reach. I ran out of knives, switched to daggers, and soon let the last dagger soar—hitting close to the center of the chest.

I paused and took deep breaths, needing more air in my lungs. I had proved my speed, agility, and capability of handling knives; I wanted to laugh I was so glad.

Next thing on my list…fire. I assembled small logs and sticks into the correct formation, and roaring fire blazed a trail to the dummy. I smelled burning plastic and other materials, and watched specks of dried burnt mud fluttering in the air as my creation burned to ashes.

Last thing on my list: Show I'm a fighter. Just as Woof had said. I turned around to the Gamemakers, and stared at them.

Nothing. The flames stroked my back, giving me a pleasant warm feeling. After standing there with nothing else to show or do, they finally dismissed me. I left the room pretty shaken.

If I was capable of doing that to a dummy…could I do it to a human? How much of a difference was there, really? To these people, none—none at all.

But I know I could never take anybody's life. I don't have such a ruthless outlook. I disfavor all this killing.

* * *

**Jodi Quinnell, 13 ~ District 10 Female**

**I've got cookies**

Today, Farro and I discussed some strategies. Like run away from the Cornucopia. Or grab only the nearest thing, and then run. Nothing much.

Now, most of the time I sit in silence. Actually, the only ones really talking and laughing were the Careers. They're all done with their sessions, probably earning 9's and 10's. Again—not fair!

I will probably fall on my face and black out, a show worthy of a 1. I have almost no idea what to do. I'll be lucky to earn a 5. . .though I wouldn't mind a 6. '7' is just a dream. Hope, hope, hope. . .

"Jodi Quinnell." A weird robotic voice announces my name.

I step into the lonely gym. Suddenly, it's filled with the Gamemakers' laughter; I am not sure if they are laughing at me, or some good joke. They shouldn't laugh at all.

I clear my throat. The murmurs slowly stop. At least half of them are looking at me.

I make my way to knife combat. The trainer gives me a dagger, and gets into a fighting pose. His feet are far from each other—that's enough space for me to get through. I nod slightly and run at him, as he waits for the moment he'll be able to grab me.

When I'm almost there, I fall smoothly onto my back and slide between his legs. He's stunned, so I use the moment to get up and jump on his back, putting my dagger to his neck before he can shake me off.

"Thanks!" I say, and head to fire–starting.

I kneel in front of a small pile of wood. One of the pieces is more plank–like, so I use it as basis. Another is straight, more branch–like. Good. I need a knife.

I remember how I failed at knife–throwing yesterday. It almost made me cry. It still makes me cry! _Still_!

I pick up a knife and head back, kneeling again and making a small hole in the plank–like wood. Then I put dry grass in and around the hole. I take the 'branch', and start rubbing.

After around five minutes of intense rubbing and blowing, a small fire sparks. It grows a little bigger. Then I extinguish and put some dirt onto it; I can't let smoke come out of the ash.

The whip is next to the Gauntlet. (I am so not gonna' go through that thing. Not another failure.) I pick it up, and walk to the sword–fighting dummies.

I swing back and hit the first dummy, in the arms and stomach. After a few times, there's a wound in its left arm.

I should be out of time. I stand there for a few seconds.

When nothing happens, I decide if I'm at sword–fighting, why not do it? I mean, so far I've been great.

I choose one of the smallest swords, not wanting to look silly. The blade is shiny and sharp, deadly.

I have no idea what to do. Why did I even think of this?

But no backing away; that will look weak.

My hand flies left and right. Suddenly, it stops. My hand stops, as the sword is stuck in the dummy's chest. I try to get it out, only to fail. It's seriously stuck there.

"Okay, time's up!" A Capitol accent disturbs me from my 'sword–fighting'.


	21. Learning Scores

**Austin Hexson, 18 ~ District 5 Male**

**MCPBN**

I'm woken by pounding on my door; I must have fallen asleep after I got back from my session. The last thing I remember is smiling like an idiot, thinking of what I did. The door bursts open, and Ampere jogs in.

"Hey, get up, the scores are about to start!" She looks both excited and anxious, not overly confident.

I jump up and run to my dresser, where I set my glasses. They're silver around the lens, and halfway down the sides; in the middle, the color changes to gold. I pick them up and rub my hand against the sides.

These were my father's. My mother had them specially made, back when they were first married. He didn't have them on the day he died, since he was down in the nuclear laboratory and they had to use goggles. I changed the prescription and have worn them ever since, even before they fit my head right. Now, they're a part of me.

"Come on, slowpoke!" Ampere chides, and I turn to argue with her when I realize she's joking. I give a quick smile and trot to the door.

We walk down the hall side–by–side. After a few steps, I say, "So how do you think you did?"

Ampere kind of hangs her head. "I don't know. I only did some survival skills and hand-to-hand combat, so I'll be somewhere between a three and a six."

"Well, you could get a one."

Ampere doesn't seem to understand I was trying to make her feel better. She snaps her head up, and gives a steely glare.

I stumble over my words as I try to reconcile. "No, I didn't mean…I was just…what I meant was that you could have been bad enough to get a one, but you weren't…so you won't."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks as I realize how stupid I sounded. My eyelids start to twitch, and I stop and turn away; I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

Ampere rubs my shoulder. I look at her again. She smiles and nods.

We reach the end of the hall, and walk into the living room. Nero is buzzing 'round like a hummingbird—a rather fat and annoying hummingbird, at that.

"OK, let's get ready, I'm so excited! I need to—I need to calm down, or else I'll be st–stuttering throughout the entire show! Now, Austin and Am–Ampere, grab a sandwich and take your seats. . .quickly now!" Nero claps twice, and I start to the sandwich bar.

Ampere, on the other hand, folds her arms and taps her foot. "I'm sorry, did you just order me to do something?" Nero rolls his eyes, and I clear my throat, but she either doesn't notice or chooses not to. "I thought you Capitol snobs were polite; I didn't hear a 'please'."

"And you won't, my dear," Nero retorts.

"Oh, really? Enlighten me to why I won't?"

"Ampere, just get a sandwich," I plead.

"Because one doesn't treat the entertainment like equals," Nero says bluntly.

A lump forms in my throat, and I turn my head when Nero looks at me. I act like it doesn't faze me.

I knew this, but for it to be confirmed by an actual citizen makes me shiver. To them, I have lost all humanity. I am an insignificant pawn.

"Excuse me? Are you saying I'm lower than you?" Nero nods. "If our positions were switched, you'd be a **_bawling little baby_**!" She screams the last part.

She slams her fists into his face, and her elbows into his sides. Nero screams for help, and I'm the only one in the room; Shilo is still in her room, Vanth is probably passed out somewhere, and the Avoxes are in the kitchen. I'm the only one that can help, and despite my better judgment I don't. I am as still as a statue, watching Ampere beat Nero to a pulp.

It's not until she grabs a vase that I react—I grab her under the arms and yank her away before she can slam it into his head. She screams and fights, but I am able to overcome her and trap her against the wall.

She's two heads shorter, so I lift her to my level and look her in the eye. "That's enough!" I don't yell, but I don't just say it either.

Ampere throws her arms around me, and starts wetting my shoulder with tears. I stand there for a moment, then decide to hug her back—it's stiff, and I know it must feel like hugging cardboard, but I do my best to comfort her.

Shilo walks in. She notices us first, and is about to ask what the heck we're doing when she sees Nero. Her eyebrow lifts in question, then she calls for Avoxes. I sigh. It's a better reaction than what I thought it would be.

As she walks over, I hear Vanth's shuffling steps. He stumbles to Nero, who's still on the floor, and mutters, "Geez, what'd you run into?"

Ampere laughs, and I join in. Nero groans, and Shilo looks at all of us like we're crazy.

I get ahold of myself after a minute, and then Ampere does. She looks at me and whispers, "Thank you."

I nod.

I explain what happened to Shilo, and luckily she lets us off with a "Just stay away from him, and don't hurt yourselves."

We all sit on the long couch, waiting. I have just finished my sandwich when the anthem begins, and names appear.

Both Careers from 1 and the boy tribute from 2 get tens; the girl from 2 gets a nine.

I half–listen to the scores for District 3. The only thing I register is amazement at how the girl got a six; I assumed she would have a four or five, like usual.

The District 4 Careers get a ten and nine.

Now District 5's symbol and my picture appear on the screen, and Caesar Flickerman says, "Austin Hexson." I begin to gulp. _Please be higher than a five,_ I repeat over and over in my head. "With a score of. . .eight."

Shilo claps, and Ampere screams with joy. This wakes Vanth up, and he glumly says, "Yahoo."

I feel like jumping up and yelling as well, but constrain myself to smiling and thanking Shilo and Ampere for congratulating me.

We settle down as Ampere's picture appears. Caesar says her name, and then— "With a score of five."

I sigh with relief, but she seems upset. "Hey," I say, "remember what we talked about?"

The rest of the scores kind of run together, since most everyone got a five—which makes Ampere feel a little better. By the end, I think she's accepted it.

We congratulate each other one more time, then return to our rooms. I fall asleep fast, and for the first time dream that I may survive the Games.

* * *

**Ramie Ortega, 12 ~ District 8 Male**

**YazminDominguez**

I hoped the session went okay.

I thought that my performance deserved at least a four.

I knew I wasn't great: I could barely handle a knife, and I don't really think I'll be tying many knots in the arena, but still…you never know.

I was most proud of my fire and camouflage fashioning. The bark turned out just like I wanted; I had finally grasped the basics of the texture of a tree. My fire was scorching, and the flames, full of light, danced.

A while after we got situated in positions around the screen, waiting for Panem's anthem to blare from it, I felt like my insides were twisted together.

I was going to wave to Clarily, when Woof asked, "How'd it go?"

I looked up at him and said softly, "Fine, but…I didn't really show them I'm a 'fighter'. I really have no clue how to do that."

Woof rolled his eyes. "What did you do?"

So I told him.

"Camouflage? I told you to show them useful things—you could have climbed a tree. The fire–starting is passable, but I really think you should have tried a little harder; this isn't an art contest."

His words hurt, so I said absolutely nothing.

The last thing he said to me before the scores were revealed was, "Sorry, Ramie, but you're not going to paint your way out of that arena. Camouflage is useful to a point, but you need to know how to defend yourself. Think about it."

I wondered what horrible things he had done to get out of his own living nightmare. Did I really want to live with the memories that were soon to come?

An annoying little voice told me that I still had to try, until I couldn't try anymore. I had to get past this barrier—this brick wall, back to my family. Or die trying.

That's when the screen lit up.

I felt like dying right then and there, nerves eating my confidence as our competitors' faces and scores flashed.

At the beginning I saw a lot of tens. Then it began decreasing.

When Lukas Seon's face appeared, I saw Clarily tense, since she was next. That was also when I felt like returning today's breakfast.

Clarily's face, and her score (5), flashed. I congratulated her; 5 is not great, but it's not miserably terrible either.

I couldn't believe it: I received a 5! This made my day—all of my hard work had paid off.

People congratulated me.

…

A huge grin was plastered on my face the whole rest of the night; I was given a huge cake that read 'Happy Birthday, Ramie' in neat, cursive letters.

"How did you guys know?" I asked the nearest person, which happened to be Woof.

Everyone glanced at Clarily, who was smiling guiltily and (I could have sworn) blushing. I felt immediate appreciation toward her.

I smiled. "Thanks," I muttered.

…

We dined on a magnificent feast of roast pig and choice salads. For dessert, there was vanilla bean ice cream, and the cake—which turned out to be marbled, with gold and purple frosting.

It didn't even bother me to have a drunk Brietta repeating, "Happy birthday, Ramie! I hope you like the cake" as she hugged me, squishing me against her big breasts.

After saying goodnight to everyone, I went to my room, slipped into pajamas, and crawled into bed. "I miss you," I whispered into my pillow, as if it was my family.

Then drifted off to sleep, thinking that it might not have been such a bad day after all. I had had a happy birthday.

* * *

**Rhiannon Woodsville, 15 ~ District 12 Female**

**LydiaXuning–fic**

Someone banged at my door with such force and insanity that it could only be Flux. As if sensing my thought, he screeched for me to go down to watch the televising of the scores.

I considered ignoring him. Why bother about the number? It wasn't like it could guarantee me not getting a knife in my back. It was only something to increase the Capitol's excitement as they anticipated the boom of the cannons.

Ehan's cannon—it still haunted me. Even as I watched the boy from 2 pin him to the ground, cut him like he was nothing…the cannon's firing was the final denial to my already–diminished hopes.

I got up shakily and sat in front of the screen, beside Miles.

District 1 got twin tens. Which one of them would be torturing me later?

District 2 and 4 were high, as well—District 3 not so.

_I'm getting a 2,_ I thought dismally, as I recalled how drunk literally every Gamemaker was when I had my private session.

…

They announced District 9.

The number "9" flashed under the boy tribute's face; apparently, I wasn't hallucinating when I thought he looked lethal.

That would make the Career pack…what—seven members to hunt the rest down? Six was more than enough to make goosebumps appear on my skin.

…

"5" circled around Miles's face.

The room was quiet, so I heard Miles's sigh of relief. I was relieved for him too; five wasn't a dangerous line to walk on.

Then they flashed "7" under my picture. Seven! That was Ehan's score, as well. Maybe some Gamemakers did notice me shooting with my slingshot after all. (Or my climbing. Or my fire–starting.)

I relaxed a bit when the anthem played, and the screen turned to darkness. It was over—at least for today.

"I'm so glad that's over," Miles muttered, echoing my thought.

"I've definitely seen worse," Flux chipped in.

Miles stood and said he wanted to go to bed. He shot out of the room. I got up, intending to follow suit, but a hand stopped me.

"Rhiannon," Flasive said. "You're just like him."

I didn't need to ask whom she meant.

I looked around for Flux, because I didn't want him to hear any of this. There was nobody left except for us. Maybe he went to look for Miles.

"Maybe," I replied.

I didn't tell her that I'd lost everything when my family died. I stayed silent regarding the fact that I had nothing back at 12 worth fighting for.

"A seven's rare for District Twelve."

I smiled a little. "Yeah. I thought they were all drunk."

"Every year, I watch two people I know slip away. Promise me you'll try, won't you?" Flasive begged. "Please, Rhia'."

She used the short form of my name—that only my family and Larua used. I watched her face transform into Mom's, holding me in her arms as we cried over Dad's death.

Then I saw Ehan's face set in gritty determination as I told him in the Justice Building that he had to come home.

"Okay," I whispered.

* * *

**Miles Dreft****, 14 ~ District 12 Male**

**CrazyTARDIS825**

I sit tentatively in front of the large screen, next to Rhiannon, not glancing at her. What are the scores? I clutch the afghan covering my lower half out of nervousness.

The Career tributes get higher scores, as usual. District 3, lower. One by one the faces tick by, until my face appears.

The flashing number underneath my name: 5.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Not too low, at least. Not low enough I will be seen as weak, and not high enough to be a particular threat.

Rhiannon's score is 7.

The entire room seems to relax as the anthem plays, and the screen goes dark.

"I'm so glad that's over," I mutter softly.

Flux pats me on the leg happily. "I've definitely seen worse." Not an insult, but not a compliment either. I sigh, nodding. Then I glance out at the bright Capitol city over one–hundred–twenty feet below.

I stand. "I think I'll head to bed early."

Flux is about to argue, but I sweep from the room before he can say anything.

I make my way up to the Training Center's roof.

Sitting in the cold, I contemplate what lies ahead, just a few days from now. I wonder idly what the arena will look like. Forest? Swamp? Ruins? Desert wasteland? All of these things I have seen in the Games. I shiver at the thought of being beaten to death by a big tribute with a heavy rock, or a brick from a toppling building. Being chased off a canyon cliff by muttations.

I hope to find knives around the Cornucopia. That way, I will have my choice weapon without getting into the Bloodbath. A backpack would be good too. Run in, grab the stuff, and run to the closest cover. My shoulders tense gradually as I imagine the possibilities. It's likely I won't survive past the Bloodbath…and even if I do, I'll have to deal with other tributes, animals, and not to mention the forces of nature.

I go to the marble wall surrounding the roof. I look down at the Capitol, clean and bright and candy–colored. Even though it's later in the night, I still see people bustling about, going about their day–to–day business. I sigh. _I'm only depressing myself._

I return to my room, shutting off the lights and falling between the covers. I can't sleep, though.

I rub my hands together, trying to warm them. I huddle under the covers, listening to the wind beat against the window.

After a few minutes, I can't take not moving. So I stand and pace the room. I rub my eyes tiredly.

Out of boredom and lack of anything to do, I start moving the room around—switching the order of the chairs, organizing the things in the bathroom—before finally climbing back into bed. This time, my insomnia is diminished, and I fall asleep.


	22. Interview Prep

**Nathalia Campbell****, 17 ~ District 3 Female**

**CelticGames4**

When Mommy and Daddy's rich friends were over, our parents made Theo and me wear proper clothes, sit on the couch in our living room, and answer questions politely. Afterward, we were always generously rewarded.

...

_I remember Mommy sitting me down when I was five. "Today, you learn to be a lady."_

_I smiled at her. "OK!"_

_It was terrible. "Sit up straight, Nathalia!" "Shoulders back!" "Feet on the floor!"_

_"I can't reach the floor!" I said, feet dangling._

_"How do you get on the couch, then?"_

_"I just jump up!" I giggled. But her cold stare made me stop short. _

_"You can't be jumping on the couch," she growled._

_I scowled, "Fine," and hopped down._

_"Now sit on the chair." She pointed strictly. _

_I sulked, and slid onto a chair on the other side of the living room._

_"Sit up straight." I sat as straight as I could. "Shoulders back." I adjusted until it hurt. "Feet on the floor." I slid to the edge of my seat until my feet touched the floor. "Chin up!" I lifted my head, looking at the ceiling. "Down, you silly girl!" She was not amused._

_I lowered my chin slightly._

_"Down," she growled. And I listened, lowering my chin._

_"Right there! Now, smile nice," she said sweetly._

_I forced a smile, and made it as dramatic as possible._

_"I said 'smile nice'," she said, frustrated. I smiled as nicely as I knew how. "Good. Bright eyes," she warned, and I tried to think of something happy._

_"Brighter! Be happy!"_

_I thought of a cute little kitten playing with a ball of yarn, and giggled, giving Mommy a toothy smile._

_"Less teeth! You're missing some."_

_I sighed. Nothing satisfied this woman._

...

I've gotten a lot better at sitting. I can literally sleep in that position.

"You're a natural!"

"I've been a natural. I've been doing this since I was five," I say with a smirk.

"Don't get a swelled head, now; that's dangerous."

"Swelled head?" I ask innocently. "Why would you ever think that?" Bolt Sullivan rolls his eyes and groans. I give a sweet smile.

"You are a true Career," my mentor says.

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

He inhales through his nose, exhaling slowly through his mouth. After a pause, he looks up again. "Your position is too…"

"Too…?" I focus on not scowling.

"Too perfect," he decides.

"It's just how I sit," I say, offended.

"Well, it seems like you're trying too hard."

"But this is interviews. I—"

"You want to be likable. You want to be natural. Not…" He puts out his hands, gesturing to me. "That."

"But I _am_ being natural!"

"But your natural isn't natural!"

I clench my teeth and fists. "Well, it is."

"Try this," he says. "Relax."

"What?"

"Relax! Sit back! Get comfortable."

I take a deep breath. "I _am_ relaxing…"

Bolt finally gets up, putting both hands on my shoulders and pushing into the couch. "There."

I can't believe this. "I can never win here, can I?!"

"You won't win without sponsors."

"Duh," I mutter, but shut my mouth after a cold stare.

"You won't win without sponsors, and you won't get them without being likable. You won't be likable if you're a robot."

I think about this statement. Finally, I speak up. "Then why the hell was I dressed like one for the chariots?!"

Bolt takes another slow, deep breath. "You are a smart girl. You know exactly what I mean."

I sigh. "I was raised like this."

"Take it all out of your mind. For a week. Because there will be nobody to baby you in the arena; it's time to grow up and be an independent young woman. So stop bitching, and let's get to work, shall we?"

I absorb everything he says. "F…fine." I want to curl into a ball and cry, or pout, or anything but talk. But for my home and family, I have to suck it up. I nod. "Fine, you're the boss. Show me how to do this."

Bolt smiles. "That was very grown–up, Nathalia. You're on your way."


	23. Interviews

**Maria Thorne****, 17 ~ District 4 Female**

**CelineAnnamarie**

My dress is flawless. It accentuates my body perfectly, by hugging my curves with soft silk, then flowing like water to my feet—which are fitted into a pair of blue strap–on, six–inch stilettos. They're easier to walk in than I thought they'd be.

The top of my dress is strapless, and cups my breasts comfortably. The color is a wonderful blue like my eyes, but on the sparkling sides, there is an ice–blue trim. I'm a sexy ocean.

My stylists didn't put very much makeup on me. Of course, I don't need it. My dirty blonde hair simply curls around my shoulders. With my nails manicured, even I didn't realize I look this good.

I knew I was hot…but damn.

…

District 1 and 2 are over in a flash.

Then when it gets to District 3, the three minutes each tribute gets turn into hours. I feel ants crawling in my skin; I just want to hurry up and show the Capitol how much they'll love me!

Finally, Bolt gets his interview over with, and it's my turn. "And now, from District Four, Maria Thorne!" Caesar calls.

Bright lights and dark faces hit me. I try not to let it faze me, and keep my eyes on Caesar. His color this year is electric purple. (It looks stunning, actually.) I walk confidently across the stage, my heels clicking against the floor as I strut.

Caesar takes my hand and kisses it gently. The applause is deafening. I smile, and take a seat next to him. "My, my, Maria—don't you look ravishing? What has been your favorite thing about the Capitol so far?" he asks, the audience hushing by his command. His crosses his legs and places his hands on his knees; I do the same, and my dress shimmers with the movement.

"Thank you, Caesar, you look pretty smashing yourself!" I flash him a smirk and giggle softly.

"I suppose my favorite part of the Capitol is the weapons. I mean, of course the city is beautiful, but I'm excited to see all these different toys," I explain, hoping it will show that I'm not just pretty—I'm dangerous.

Caesar chuckles at my compliment. The audience claps appropriately. That's not the reaction I was hoping for. "Speaking of home, do you have anything to say to your family? Can you tell me a little bit about them?" He leans a little closer.

I take a deep breath. "Yes, I do—I'll see you when I get home." I wink at the cameras. "My family is pretty normal; I have my mom and my dad, who are both working—Mom as a jeweler and Dad as a fisher. My brother is out of the house and getting married soon. Then there's my nana." I almost tear up, and have to pause before I can go on. I push my emotions back quickly. "My grandmother has been there for me on so many occasions. She's very sick, and I wanted to come here…to win for her, before she passes on. I love you, nana. I'm going to make you proud," I say with a smile, determination obvious in my eyes.

The audience coos. They clap and shout encouraging things like, "You can do it!"

Caesar pulls a handkerchief out of his suit pocket, and dabs at fake tears. "That's a very sweet story. You seem confident enough. What are you plans for when you get into the arena?" The audience quiets, waiting.

"I plan to take out the competition. They had better watch out for me." I give Caesar a coy smirk.

"I'm sure they will be. So you've told us about your family. Let's hear more about you; do you have any hobbies that you'd like to share with us?"

_Training in the academy_. I almost say this, but stop myself. Panem isn't supposed to know about Careers, even though I'm certain they do.

"I like to run a lot, keep myself in top physical condition. I know that's odd to hear because most people in District Four swim." I giggle quietly.

"Yes, that _is_ odd, but it's good that you like to make sure you're fit. It certainly shows," he compliments me…I think. "Do you have a favorite color?"

I'm taken aback a bit by this off–the–wall question. "I think my favorite is red, because it's the color of power and passion—both of which I know well." I wink at the camera once more, hoping Panem catches my innuendo. I get an extra–big applause from the people in the audience wearing red.

Caesar nods, and rubs his chin slightly. "I could definitely see that." His foot shifts uncomfortably. I'm hoping no one else caught that; it would look bad to Panem if I made Caesar feel awkward.

I hear the buzzer go off that signals my interview is done. Caesar smiles at me, and stands. "Well, it's been wonderful having you here. May the odds be ever in your favor!"

I smile back. "Thank you, Caesar. I'm sure they will be." I give the audience a small wave before walking off–stage, my heels clicking once more.

I take my seat with a renewed sense of confidence. Thanks to this interview, I'll have an even greater chance of winning! I cross my arms and legs, and let a smile creep onto my face.

I barely pay attention to the rest of the interviews. All I can think about is coming home, and seeing my nana beam with pride. It makes me want to cry from happiness.

* * *

**Clarily Montane, 14 ~ District 8 Female**

**Revolution Mockingjay**

"Panem, let me introduce—Clarily Montane, from District Eight!"

The audience claps as I walk across the stage, and Caesar kisses my hand before taking his seat.

"What is your favorite thing about the Capitol so far?" He crosses his legs, and waits for an answer.

I blink, as I try to think of what to reply. I don't really like the Capitol at all. "Probably this interview," I say, trying my best to smile.

Caesar grins. "Why do you say that? Besides the obvious answer: getting to spend time with me." He winks, and everyone laughs.

"Well, that's part of it. Mostly, I want to get noticed; you know—make an impression."

Caesar nods. "So what about your home life?"

"It's a lot different. The food here is better. . .not to mention the smell is, as well." _Keep it up_, I think. "Though I do miss it quite a lot. Even though we don't have a lot of food and the luxury that you all have, I'd love to see home again."

"And what skill have you learned from there that you think would be most useful in the arena?"

_I really haven't learned many skills from home_, I think. But I obviously can't say that; it'll make me look weak.

"I know which plants and berries are poisonous," I say finally. I never learned that from home, but it's good enough.

"Really—in the Textile district? How interesting," Caesar says, clasping his hands and tilting his head in a show of genuine curiosity. "How was it you came by that?"

I hesitate. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to lie…but now I have to carry on, so I don't look like a complete idiot.

"I learned it in school," I say vaguely.

"One of those incredible off–topic days when no one learns anything, I suspect." The audience laughs knowingly, and I laugh with them, though it's forced.

Caesar must sense time is growing short, because he says more seriously, "How would you imagine your life if you became a victor?"

"Well, I think it would be better for my family…and me, of course," I say. "It would be a lot easier to live, that's for sure."

The buzzer goes off while Caesar is saying, "Yes, you can definitely be sure of that. That marks the end," he adds, and stands, offering me his hand.

"Thank you," I say, taking it.

"No, no—thank you," Caesar says, shaking my hand. Then he and I turn to face the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, Clarily Montane, District 8!"

_I've done it_, I think. _I've survived the interview_.

But was it good enough?

* * *

**Spelt Keller, 13 ~ District 9 Female**

**Dances With Vampires & gamemaker . john**

I tap my feet anxiously and stare at the floor while the interviewer's voice echoes. The Capitol peoples' clapping and cheering mesh together, filling my ears with a loud buzz. They're on the other side of the dark curtain, barely a few feet away. Suddenly, I feel sick; the City Circle is enormous, and it sounds like there are so many. And that's nothing compared to the amount of people tuned in. I want to run to my room and hide.

Ramie, the boy from District 8, is also behind the curtain. He answers their questions as charmingly as he can, knowing the whole country is waiting for a slip-up. Apparently he does something right, because everyone laughs. Part of me wants him to fail...so if I do, I won't look so bad. I hastily scold myself.

One minute left. I try to remember what I'm supposed to do. Walk gracefully. Appear...um...I don't know what the word was-fancy, sort of. Smile. Be charming. Impress everyone. Be funny. Sound smart. It's a lot, considering I only get one chance, and have to fit all of that in three minutes. My heart is beating fast, and my palms are sweating. Okay. Okay, calm down. I'm prepared, I've practiced-I know what to do. I wipe my hands on my light brown dress. It's pretty enough, and it matches my eyes.

My fear comes back. I take deep breaths. I think I feel even more nervous than the reaping.

The crowd starts clapping again. There's a bit of dialogue between Ramie and the interviewer, then I imagine him holding the boy's arm high. The clapping intensifies like it always does.

Ramie leaves the stage.

"And next, we have Spelt Keller, the lovely and beautiful young lady from District Nine!"

I walk quickly, trying not to step on my dress and trip (walking in these heels is harder than it looks), then sit in a chair next to the famous Caesar Flickerman.

He's still standing, offering me his hand. Oops...I hastily stand, shake it, and sit back down, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap.

There is the buzz again. Cheers, clapping, whistles, feet stomping. The Capitol people's clothes are so bright that they're painful to look at. I catch a whiff of Caesar's perfume. I don't know where to turn my head.

"Are you nervous?" Caesar asks lightheartedly.

Yes. A hundred times yes. But that might not be the answer he's looking for.

"For what, the Games or the interview?"

Caesar laughs. "Either. Both. Whichever you like."

"Hm." I ponder out loud. "Cutting down grain, cutting down tributes...there's not really that much difference."

Caesar raises his eyebrows. "Is that something you do a lot in your district?"

My answer is immediate. "Oh, yeah, I've been using a scythe since I was little. I can't wait to use it in the arena." I shrug, to appear nonchalant.

Am I overdoing it? Some people might think I'm exaggerating. But the audience seems to believe it. I become more and more comfortable.

"Well, I'm sure that will come in handy; I'd watch out if I was a tribute!" Caesar says, setting off cheers and whistles. I smile as I wait. "Do you have anyone special back there? Anyone whom you miss dearly?"

"I miss everyone; in District Nine, all of us are one big family."

Caesar wants more. "Anyone in particular?" he asks, obviously fishing.

I just shake my head.

"What went through your mind when your name was called?"

Terror. Panic. Hopelessness. "Well, I mean, I was really surprised first of all, and totally unprepared. But...soon, I started to get excited to see the Capitol, and stuff."

Caesar nods. "And how does it stack up to your expectations?"

"Oh, it's like nothing I imagined." I gush a little. "It's amazing to actually be here." That earns me some points.

"How well do you know your competition? What about Rift, your district partner?"

"Well..." He left me for the Careers. He didn't even say sorry. "Yes, I guess we know each other well enough. We talked a lot on the way up here. On the train."

A buzzer sounds. A wave of relief sweeps over me; I don't have any more questions to answer. Caesar and I stand. "Spelt Keller, from District Nine!" With that, he launches my hand into the air in triumph.

* * *

**Miles Dreft, 14 ~ District 12 Male**

**CrazyTARDIS825**

Caesar silences the ecstatic crowd, and stands to announce the last tribute. "And last but not least, Miles Dreft of District Twelve!"

They clap.

He takes my hand to shake it firmly. As we take our seats, he gives a flourish of his arms and a comforting smile. "So, Miles, what is your family like back home? Do you have anything to say to them?" He's probably my favorite Capitol citizen thus far.

The crowd waits earnestly. I bite my lip, and think about how to sum up my family. They are so unique, but in ways that the rich people of the Capitol would just find boring, corny, and uninteresting. The simple life.

"They…they always found a way to make life seem good, even when it wasn't." I smile, and shrug. "I suppose in reply to the second question, 'Wish me luck, and…I'll do my best'," I say, looking toward a camera, imagining my sister smiling back.

The crowd awww's. Caesar smiles, nodding at me.

"They seem supportive. I bet life is totally different in District Twelve than it is here. What's your favorite thing about the Capitol?"

How can I place the city and people I despise in a good light, one that would make me look humble and grateful to be here? "The scenery," I reply, smiling, "from the top floor of the Training Center."

"Yes, it is quite something to look at, especially with all of the vivid colors. Which one is your favorite?" Caesar asks.

I consider for a moment. I have a lot of favorites. "Azure. It reminds me of the sky on a summer day."

"That's a good choice. I might use that next year." Everyone laughs, and Caesar chuckles. "What do you think your biggest strength is?"

Should I lie so people don't mess with me? Or would I become Enemy Number One?

"Well…I'm a pretty fast runner. And I can run for a long time." That's mostly true. I ran around a lot when I was little.

"That's a good skill in the Games. You could most definitely say that you're fit," Caesar says, raising an eyebrow and smiling.

"I suppose to some extent. I've never been particularly big." I shrug and motion to myself. I've slightly lessened in skeletal appearance from the feasts I've enjoyed these past few days.

Caesar starts to say something when the buzzer goes off. "It seems our time is up. It's been good to have you; may the odds be ever in your favor." He stands and shakes my hand again.

"Thank you, Caesar, it's been a pleasure," I say, then give a small bow and a few waves.

I leave the stage to my left, the applause ringing like bells. A stupid grin is stuck on my face. I think I pulled it off.


	24. Night Before Games

**Ampere Henry****, 14 ~ District 5 Female**

**daydreamer626**

I'm silent as we watch the broadcast of the interviews. There's nothing that needs to be said.

Tomorrow, twenty–four will go into the arena. One will come out, and I bet my bottom dollar it will be one of those brutish Careers. Twenty–four hours from now, I could be dead.

Terrified, I slip out of the main room to clean my face of the layered makeup that Boadicea insisted on.

I've decided, after my 5 in training, that I'll grab anything near me and run from the Cornucopia. I'm fairly decent at hand–to–hand combat, probably good enough to take down some of the others from lower districts, but I'll only prolong my agonizing death if I fight the Careers. I also want Austin as an ally; we may not be on the best of terms, but he's the closest thing I've had to a friend since we were reaped.

Fiddling with the many buttons on the shower panel, I think of the best way to approach him. He might have been feeling somewhat protective of me when he called me Sally (who I know is his younger sister), but I have no way of knowing for sure if that's true.

I step out of the shower makeup–free, and press a button which dries my hair so that it neatly falls around my shoulders.

When I walk in the main room, Vanth is trying to work the television.

"What could you possibly want to watch?" I call out to Vanth, who jerks his head back, obviously thinking I was Shilo —_"Oh, s'just you."_— "Surely all those shows are about self–absorbed, spoiled brats who decorate themselves to stop from deteriorating into nothing."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Am–peh–rhee." The smell of wine fills my nostrils, and it's all I can do not to throw up.

"Ampere would like to know where Austin is," I snap, fed up with him. Not only has he been a drunk pile of bones this entire time, but he's shown no respect to either Austin or me. Even Nero treats us better…but he _is_ scared of us…

"Right behind you." Austin walks in, polishing his glasses with the edge of his shirt. "So what's up?"

"Shilo surprisingly hasn't mentioned this at all," I start, feeling shy all of a sudden. "But, uh, I…I wanted to know, uh—"

"Yes, Ampere?" Austin asks, slightly amused. I feel myself turn red.

"I mean, do you want to help each other tomorrow?"

_Nice wording._

"How so?"

"Helping each other so both of us survive the Bloodbath." By now, I'm positive Austin tolerates me enough to accept my proposal. Ever since the first day of training, we've been acting less like strangers and more like friends.

And fine, let's face it, I have a feeling he wants to go in with someone he knows, no matter how annoying she can be.

"An alliance, you mean?" he asks cautiously.

"Yes," I confirm. I don't add what's undoubtedly on both our minds. We might _not_ make it out of the Bloodbath. Or the arena.

"Sure." (I can't contain my relieved smile.) "So how are we going to go about this?"

"You grab whatever you can, and then book it away from the Cornucopia." Vanth paying attention? I never thought I'd live to see the day.

"Very helpful, Vanth," Austin says, his words laced with sarcasm.

"A little late, but appreciated all the same," I agree just as sarcastically.

"It's what Shilo's been telling us the entire time," Austin finishes.

Vanth glares at us before arduously pushing himself off the couch, and slouching out of the room. We manage to exchange a triumphant smile, which disappears as Nero makes his way over.

"You'll want to get to sleep," Nero says. "You're in for a big day tomorrow."

"You _do_ care about us!" I gasp sarcastically, masking my rising anger and fear. Then I run before either Nero or Austin can reply.

I jump on my bed, put a pillow over my face, and scream until I can't anymore.

I don't have a chance. Yeah, I'm a genius with edible plants and stuff like that, and good at hand–to–hand, but I haven't found a weapon I'm confident enough to use. I can use knives fairly well, and archery I'm not bad at. But it's the Careers' skills that frighten me most. The boy from 1 can throw a spear from about ninety meters away, and makes my fighting skills look like a two–year–old's.

I order some food and sit on my bed, knowing I'm hard–pressed for sleep, waiting for it to come.

_Austin and I will be OK; we're a good team_, I chant over and over in my head. That makes me fall asleep, albeit reluctantly.

* * *

**Rift Quayl, 17 ~ District 9 Male**

**wjjmwmsn5**

Red. So much red. Lots and lots of red, crimson and dark. Menacing and inviting. Needed. Flowing through, and then spilling out. Red on silver, red on brown, red on green, white, or yellow. Crimson and gold, metal and metal, flesh and wood. Soft and hard, dead and alive, fatal and harmless. Innocent and corrupted. Deadly and innocuous.

One more night. Less than twenty–four hours from now, I will be in the Games. I look at the digital clock in my room. _10:19_. In just under twelve hours, I'll be in the Games. I'll be at the Bloodbath, staring at the other tributes, killing the other tributes, watching other tributes' blood flow from their wounds, watching them die. I will a contender, I will be a Career, a tribute—I will be so amazingly much that I'm more than excited.

The Bloodbath is what's on my mind. I'm not thinking of victory, Amaranth, knives, or what life will be like when I get home; all I can think of is the Bloodbath. I can picture it in short fragments that my mind pulls toward me before flitting to the next. The next what–if scenario that makes my heart thud with gleefulness and anxiousness.

I can't help but figure out the minutes in my head, wanting to count them down, wanting them all to be gone. Six hundred seventy–nine minutes remain until ten o' clock a.m. tomorrow. I should sleep. But I can't.

The bed is perfectly comfy, the mattress soft and roomy, the sheets sleek and silky, the comforter thick and warm in my slightly chilly room. Maybe it's just me that's chilly; maybe I'm imagining it. Why would I be imagining it? My mind flies at seven thousand miles a minute. I can't focus. What was I thinking about? Oh. The bed. It's comfortable, but all I want to do is get out of it, move around, and go to the arena, where I'll kill, kill, kill, win, and go home to glory and riches and something close to Capitol life. And Amaranth. But I'm not supposed to think about her right now. Distraction. Can't have that.

I don't feel even slightly guilty about abandoning the alliance Spelt and I temporarily had. That's over. That's done. The little thing has nothing to offer me, and the Careers have so much. I wonder why I ever agreed to be her ally in the first place. I'd just be watching over her, like…a big brother, or something. And I so definitely do not want that whatsoever; I'm not a big brother to my younger sisters, and I'm not a big brother to Spelt.

I'm Rift. I'm awesome. I'm the soon–to–be victor.

Amaranth.

Red.

Blood.

Amaranth's hair is red. Amaranth's blood should never be spilled. Amaranth is special. She is perfect. She is…is…

I think about killing Spelt tomorrow. I won't. That would almost be cruel. And while I do plan on being as vicious and merciless as the other Careers when presented with the opportunity, killing Spelt is out of the question. She's not a bad little person, and she vaguely reminds me of Amaranth when we were thirteen or twelve, or…yes, thirteen—Spelt is thirteen. Anyway, the Capitol audience usually doesn't find district partners killing district partners quite as entertaining, I would assume, and the districts find it horrible. So I'll refrain from that.

My eyes close as I think of everything, and eventually I end up falling asleep.

* * *

**Trevon Rindez, 15 ~ District 11 Male**

**kb5000**

_I'm in a dense forest, the towering trees shielding me from immense waves of heat. My mouth screams for water, a parched desert amongst bushes and grass._

_I see a lake in front of me, and walk towards it. But it seems as though for every step I take…I take two back. I feel myself collapsing, and give into the darkness consuming my thoughts._

…

_I'm home, staring at my family and Quinn sobbing on each other. I tap their shoulders, yell in their ears that I'm behind them. They don't hear me. Just fill _my_ ears with grief._

_Matt looks right at me, and my chest lights up with hope._

_"Matt! It's me, Trevon!" I scream, and shake him._

_He stares, his eyes red and puffy. I turn to see a wooden box, mostly nailed shut. I lift the lid, and find my face staring back._

_I walk backward, shaking my head. "No…no!" _

_The other me stands and grabs my hands, pulling me toward him. "I am you. You are me." He pulls me into the box. "We are together again." I fight, but he's stronger, and the black wave consumes me once more._

…

_I'm running on a beach, a thing I've only dreamed of seeing. I turn. I'm running from a faceless man._

_ I try to run, but he catches me, pushing me deep into the sand; it stings my eyes, and I cry out in agony. I can't see through the red blur. I'm left to wriggle in all directions._

_ "You promised, Trevon!" Matt. I imagine tears streaking his skin, and my heart breaks to hear him so disappointed in me._

_"What happened to starting a life together? I told you—you didn't last a day!" Quinn. I feel a wetness rim the edges of my eyes as I cry for my love's sorrow._

_"Only a score of _six_? You could've gotten a ten if you tried," my father mutters under his breath, only just audible from where I am._

_I sob out loud, my grief made known to my mystery assassin. I've always strived to make my father proud, and now I've made him think I don't care about my life._

_"Trevon…why'd you leave us, son?" my mother cries. I stretch my hands up to my ears, to plug the horrible noises._

_I yell at them, telling them I couldn't change my fate._

_My vision clears, and there's my Quinn—the love of my life—in a knee–length, sleeveless white sundress with flowers cut out, but material behind. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in loose curls. Her eyes stare into mine, and I smile because she looks beautiful._

_She lunges forward and grabs my shoulders. "Haven't you realized? You're the author of your fate. Not the president, not the Gamemakers, not the other tributes. You!"_

_I smile again._

_Then Quinn morphs into the District 1 boy—the one with the midnight–black hair and cold blue eyes. Chrome, I think is his name. He stares down, grinning viciously._

_My grin turns to grimace as he whips out a wicked blade. Long, with a slit through the middle. He raises it; I close my eyes, and feel it enter my chest._

…

I awake in my bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the Capitol nightlife going on, and my, Farro's, and our fellow tributes' faces flashing across screens. They're celebrating our impending demise.

Shaking my head in disgust, I untangle myself from the dampened silk sheets and stumble into the bathroom. I stick my mouth under the tap, gulping water by the bucketful, only coming up for small gasps of air.

When I'm done, I stare at my solid, sweat–streaked face in the mirror. I have bags under my eyes. Stress, terror, and hope are all shoved into the small hazel ovals. My lips are cracking. But I don't care.

I reach for the silver chain looped around my neck, its ends held together by a clip. I stare at the reflection of my eyes, tears brimming at the edges.

"I _will_ come home, guys…you're not getting rid of me this easily."


	25. Morning of Games

**Ampere Henry****, 14 ~ District 5 Female**

**daydreamer626**

_"C'mon, loudmouth! Don't you have anything to say?"_

_"It's like her to back down from a fight."_

_"Yeah, remember what happened when her partner really told her off?"_

_"She's too chicken to face us."_

_The people behind me howl with laughter._

_Ignoring the taunts, I keep running, weaving through trees at random in vain hope of shaking my pursuers. I trip over something and fall flat on my face. I turn to run in another direction, but find myself surrounded by none other than the Careers. My terror is absolute. I'm staring into those cruel eyes. But I won't beg; I'll die with dignity._

_Several sharp points fly toward me: an arrow, knife, spear, mace, even a sickle. I see fresh blood from a recent kill_—

"Get up, Ampear, darling! We have to g–g–get going soon!" Nero bangs on my door, grumbling about supposed insubordination.

My body jerks in surprise; the blows sound like a cannon. And I scream, "SHUT UP, BIRDY! I'M UP!" I pull the covers over my head, hoping today is an illusion.

Well, my ears are ringing, and my stomach seems to be turning inside–out repeatedly. Today is really happening.

Another knock. I growl; Capitol birdmen regrow backbones quickly. I hurl the covers off, and storm to the door. "I told you I was up! Take that beak of yours and peck a hole through someone else's eardrums—! Oh. . ."

I shut my mouth. "Morning, Austin," I say, as though nothing happened.

He stands before me, looking annoyed.

"Between you and me, I'll take Nero's 'beak' over your air horn," Austin says.

"I scream. He screams _and_ bangs on doors. You still want him waking you up?" I tease.

Austin covers his face with his hand, and groans. "As hilarious as you can be, can you please save the humor? We might need it later." Oh. Right. "Shilo wants to talk to us."

We walk to the main room in silence, and start eating.

"Morning, you two." Shilo walks in. We see a sadness that seems to make her twenty years older.

Austin and I mumble, "Good morning."

"OK," Shilo says, making an effort to appear businesslike, though the sadness remains. "Both of you should get out of the Bloodbath. That means don't participate, don't go looking for the best supplies, and don't pick a fight with anyone unless they're about to kill you. Just grab anything you pass. You're allies. Find each other and go from there."

We nod.

Peacekeepers barge in to escort us to the hovercraft, which will away us to the arena.

"Thank you for your help," Austin tells Shilo. I nod again, unable to say anything.

"Thank you for taking it. Good luck."

I don't trust myself to look anyone in the eye. Or to not start crying. I hyperventilate, squeezing Austin's hand as hard as I can before I fully freak out. He grasps mine just as tightly. The contact relaxes me. I need all the comfort and reassurance I can get if this is to be my last hour in Panem.

* * *

**Clarily Montane, 14 ~ District 8 Female**

**Revolution Mockingjay**

"Today is the day," Ferronia Pallum says cheerfully. It takes me a minute to realize what she means.

_The Games._ My stomach knots. I feel like I'm going to be sick. Thoughts of Ramie fill my mind, and I feel even sicker. What if I see him die?

I dash to the bathroom, lifting the toilet seat just in time to throw up whatever I ate yesterday.

I lean back and pant once I stop hurling. I taste acid as a tear slides down my cheek; I force others away. _I will not cry. Not now._

I take a deep breath, then splash cold water on my face at the sink. I examine myself in the mirror. My face is slightly red, but it's going away quickly.

I pull on a set of clothes, and head to the dining room. Ramie's barely touching his food. How can he be expected to eat on a day like this?

I stop myself from declining when an Avox places a plate of pancakes in front of me. She walks away silently, and I pick up a fork, my hand shaking. I try to hide it, but Ramie stares.

I clear my throat, embarrassed, and slowly swallow the first bite. I stare at the rest of the pancakes, and my shoulders drop. _How am I ever going to finish this?_

But I keep on eating, bite after bite until it's gone. Everyone is staring at me now. I stop chewing the piece that's still in my mouth for a second, then slowly chew it again. "What?"

"Nothing." Ramie looks at his plate. I frown at him; 'nothing' always means 'something'.

"You're apparently hungry," Woof says.

That's when I realize that they don't understand.

"No," I say, "but I will be in the arena."

Chiron slips a thick, fur–lined coat over me, and pats my head as if I'm a dog. "Good luck!"

_I hate Capitol people,_ I think, trying to ignore the butterflies. I hate how they think it's just a television show.

"_Thirty seconds_," says an automated voice.

Chiron lightly pushes me toward the tube. I'm going to have a heart attack. Maybe that will be better; maybe dying in here will be better than dying out there.

I quickly banish thoughts of suicide as I remember my family. I can't leave them.

"_Ten seconds_."

I step into the tube, and turn to see my stylist. He gives two thumbs–up, smiling giddily. Glass wraps around me. Chiron smiles even larger.

My pedestal is suddenly raised upward. I frantically push my arms against the walls, wondering what is happening.

Sunlight hits my face. I blink a few times to adjust my eyesight. My pedestal stops moving, and that's when I get my first glimpse of the arena.


End file.
